Empty Diary
by Helen C
Summary: Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn’t it?
1. Prologue

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating : **PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer :** The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N**. This story totally kicked my ass. I wrote the first few chapters, decided that it sucked, and tried to forget about it. It didn't work, so I struggled my way to the end, ending up with a very, very rough first draft that I didn't like. So, I again tried to forget about it. And again with the "didn't work." I re-worked the first chapter and sent it to Joey to get her opinion, thinking, "She'll just tell me I should trash it and move on to better things, and I'll listen to her, cause she's smart and she has good taste." Except Joey loved it, and then proceeded to gently nag me for more, and since I can't refuse my beta anything, I complied. Once we were done with the whole story, I still didn't like the beginning, so I re-wrote it again. That sound you're hearing is me banging my head on the desk. J

All this to say that this fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

**Empty Diary**

Helen C.

Prologue

The first time he awakes, the drugs are making everyone and everything look uncomfortably fuzzy.

He's in the hospital, someone tells him. He's fine. He has to stay calm.

Then, a doctor arrives and starts asking questions, and he's suddenly very grateful for the drugs that dull his feelings. He can't answer the most simple questions the doctor is asking, and even in his drugged up state, he knows that that's not normal.

He's scared, but thanks to the drugs, he can almost pretend he isn't.

Can almost pretend it's normal that he doesn't remember who he is and what he's doing here.

Can almost pretend the doctor's concerned frown doesn't make him wish he was still unconscious.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The day after that, a dark-haired man tells him that his name's Ryan Atwood, that he's sixteen, that he has been injured in a car accident, and that he's going to be fine. The man looks like he hasn't slept in ages—his hair dishevelled, his eyes red and puffy.

"Who are you?" Ryan asks.

The man flinches, smiles and says, "Later."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Later," becomes a theme in Ryan's life.

People—doctors, the dark-haired man and his wife—keep telling him that he'll have answers to his questions later, that the amnesia is caused by the blow he took to the head during the accident, that maybe the memories will come back on their own.

"What if they don't?" Ryan asks one of the doctors.

The doctor looks away without replying.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The dark-haired man and his wife spend most of their time with him—except when the doctors take him away for yet another examination.

Ryan soon learns that their names are Sandy and Kirsten.

Sometimes, during the night, he can hear one or both of them crying, talking about a boy named Seth.

He gathers his courage to ask, "Who's Seth?"

Kirsten pales and leaves the room. Sandy brushes Ryan's hair from his forehead and says, "He was our son."

"Was?" Ryan pushes.

"He died in the accident," Sandy adds.

Ryan doesn't know what to say so he keeps quiet.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You're not my father, are you?" he asks Sandy one day when the painkillers are making everything look blurry and distant.

Sandy looks surprised. "No, kid."

Ryan nods. That much he had guessed.

"Then why are you here?" he asks.

Sandy doesn't hesitate. "Because I love you."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Eventually, as he becomes more lucid for increasingly long periods of time, Kirsten and Sandy start answering his questions more openly.

He learns that he, Seth, and their respective girlfriends were on the road back from Los Angeles when another driver ran a red light.

The two girls are fine, Seth died on the site and Ryan has just spent a month unconscious.

"You scared us to death," Sandy says.

"Sorry."

He doesn't understand why Sandy smiles at that.

The Cohens tell him that he had problems with his parents and when his mother couldn't take care of him anymore, they took him in. "You got into trouble and I was your lawyer," Sandy explains.

"What kind of trouble?"

"You stole a car."

Ryan feels an incredulous laugh bubbling under the surface. This doesn't sound like him at all, but then, how would he know?

Ryan also learns that his family is a mess (as in his father and brother are in prison and his mother is AWOL) and that's why they're not here right now.

He tries not to dwell on the unspoken fact that his mother left him with his lawyer.

How can he not remember that?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He asks more questions, but the Cohens prove unable to answer most of them.

"You didn't share much about yourself," Kirsten once tells him, almost as an apology. "And we didn't dare push as long as you didn't seem comfortable."

"I thought I'd been with you for a few months." Were they still strangers to him, even before the accident?

Even after all these months?

"It's complicated," Kirsten hedges, and Ryan leaves it at that.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The first time he enters the Cohens' house, Ryan can't help but feel disappointed.

He had hoped that the place would trigger… something.

A memory from his past.

A vague feeling of recognition.

Anything.

It doesn't happen.

The Cohens show him the room where he used to sleep, tell him they set up another room inside the house for him, and when they leave him alone, Ryan spends an hour going through his things, searching for something familiar.

He doesn't find anything.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You're lucky to be alive," people tell him—the Cohens, Luke, Summer and Marissa.

Ryan has blanked on most of the doctor's explanations about how serious his injuries were, but he knows they were bad.

The fact that his hair is barely an inch long, the fact that he spent a month in a coma and now needs PT to start moving around better, the fact that he has headaches that leave him nauseous and wiped out for days… all these things are clues as to what happened.

Yes, he's ready to believe he's lucky to have survived.

He still wishes he had been even luckier and had kept his memory intact.

Aside from being unnerving, having no idea who he is and how he used to relate to these people proves to be a serious hindrance sometimes, as he finds out the hard way, when he first meets Kirsten's father.

* * *

TBC 


	2. Chapter 1

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

Chapter One

Ryan is walking aimlessly through the streets, trying to keep his mind blank. Funny how difficult he finds it, considering the circumstances.

All his memories, what he liked, what he knew about himself, who he was, neatly erased in a few minutes, leaving no trace—yet, he still can't stop his thoughts from twirling in his mind, can't stop the confrontation from playing again, and again, and again.

…_send you back to jail…_

…_I'll be damned if I let my family…_

…_out of charity…_

It's dark and surprisingly cold for Southern California. Ryan's starting to regret not having brought a jacket with him when he rushed out of the house.

Okay, "rushed out of he house" is a slight understatement.

"Ran like hell" might be more accurate.

Whatever.

It's not like he was thinking about jackets, or about anything else. He just wanted to escape Mr. Nichol's spiteful accusations and his gleeful look at Ryan's distress.

He just wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Caleb Nichol.

Ryan realizes he's almost running and forces himself to stop and take a deep breath.

_They think you're a good kid, but you're nothing but a street thug_, Mr. Nichol said—no, yelled

Ryan sighs and closes his eyes, remembering how he took a step back at the words and found himself hitting a wall, in every sense of the term.

Without memories, he lacks the weapons to defend himself.

For all he knows, Mr. Nichol is right.

After all, Sandy did say that Ryan stole a car.

_"My daughter took you in out of charity when your drunk of a mother abandoned you, and you repaid her by killing my grandson, and she's still too nice to send you back to jail where you belong, but I'm not, and I'll be damned if I let my family—"_

Ryan tuned him out at that point, his eyes meeting Kirsten's over Mr. Nichol's shoulders, and when she looked down, tears in her eyes, he snapped.

He looked at Mr. Nichol again, saw the hatred on his face, heard it in his words, and pushed him back forcefully, not caring that the old man stumbled, not caring that Kirsten called after him, just needing to get out of there before—

Without realizing it, he has started to walk again, and he finds himself panting at the top of a slope, his muscles aching from the strain.

Stupid.

He hasn't been out of the hospital for that long, he still gets tired easily, and he really shouldn't run that long, that fast.

Damn it.

He's sure that once upon a time, he would have been able to walk—run, even—this distance without feeling like an old man instead of a healthy sixteen-year-old.

Of course, he's not exactly healthy anymore.

He still needs to rest a lot, the doctors have been clear enough on that point.

They can't do much to give him back the sixteen years of his life that have vanished from his memory, but they can tell him to rest and take it easy.

Fuckers.

Ryan sits on the curb for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

What the hell is he supposed to do now?

He doesn't want to go back to the house in case Mr. Nichol is still there, and he doesn't have anywhere else to go.

He feels stuck in a doorless room, has felt that way ever since he awoke in a hospital three weeks earlier, his mind empty of everything that made him… him.

He doesn't recognize the house he lives in, doesn't recognize the things Kirsten and Sandy say are his, doesn't remember their son who died in the accident, can't mourn with them.

He can't remember his first family or the relationship he had with them.

He can't remember ever dating that weepy girl who came to visit him a few times in the hospital, but never since he has come back "home."

He can't remember that that other girl, Summer, and Seth were together.

He can't remember ever going out with them.

He can't share stories and memories with them.

He can't feel anything but blank and itchy—as if the memories he needs to be himself again are there, just out of reach, and that if he focuses enough, he'll be able to find them and everything will make sense again.

He spends hours, every day, looking for these memories and coming back with nothing.

Kirsten and Sandy keep saying that it's okay, that it'll come back when it will, and if it doesn't, they'll help him deal with it, and that other memories will come.

They're wrong.

It's everything but okay.

It's driving Ryan insane.

It's making Ryan wish he could…

Whatever.

He just wishes he could do something, anything about it.

As usual when he's getting worked up, Ryan can feel a slight pounding in his head.

He knows that it will get worse if he doesn't calm down, but he _can't_ calm down, not after… this.

…_back to jail where you belong…_

Is that what people in this town think of him? That he's a criminal who deserves to be in jail?

And if he was a car thief, who's to say that they're not right?

Granted, he doesn't remember doing it—nor can he think of any circumstances where he'd ever consider doing something that dumb.

But none of that matters.

He did it.

He wishes he could remember something.

Some small glimpse of his past.

Some reasons as to why he's here, with these nice people, and not with his messed up family.

Or in jail.

As usual when he's trying to re-assemble the pieces of his past, he starts with his oldest memory—waking up in the hospital—and tries to work his way backwards from there.

As always, he comes up blank.

There's nothing, not even a vague memory of the accident, no flash of light, no memories of pain, of fear, of noise.

Just blackness and emptiness.

The pounding in his head is growing worse, but Ryan ignores it.

Rising to his feet, he starts walking again, ignoring the pain that now seems to be encompassing his whole brain.

Doesn't he have any friends? Aside from Marissa, Summer and Luke, he doesn't seem to know anyone.

Where is his mother? The Cohens have told him that they're trying to find her, which implies that not only did she abandon him, but she didn't even bother to stay in touch.

What does that say about her, and about the Atwood family at large?

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn't hear the car stopping behind him, doesn't hear his name being called, doesn't hear anyone following him.

Then all of a sudden, hands grab him, make him spin around, and he finds himself face to face with a concerned-looking Sandy.

Ryan closes his eyes, out of breath again.

Now that he's standing still, he can't ignore the pain anymore, and fuck, it really hurts this time.

"Ryan?" Sandy asks, his voice impossibly loud in Ryan's ears.

He tries to open his eyes, only to be blinded by the glare of the car headlights.

He closes his eyes again and drops to the ground, Sandy's arms around him, slowing the fall.

When he feels himself starting to drift away, he doesn't try to cling to consciousness.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan blinks up at the white ceiling, hears the monitor beeping next to him, and swallows a bad taste of deja-vu.

He may have forgotten all about his past, but he can still remember the first time he woke up after the accident—quite a feat, considering how heavily sedated he was then. But all the drugs in the world weren't enough to stop the sinking feeling of panic when a doctor asked for his name, and he opened his mouth to reply and came up blank.

The panic didn't last long; after the first three questions, he just started to feel detached from the whole situation, hearing himself reply, "I don't know," to inane questions about his family, his address and his phone number.

Then, the doctor moved to who the President was—and fuck if the answer to _that_ question didn't come easily to Ryan.

He hates this whole situation.

He hates the migraines, not remembering who he was, hates having to rely on people who have known him for a mere few months for answers, hates… well, all of this.

Sighing, he carefully looks around, having learned from past experience that it's best to move slowly when waking up from a migraine.

The first thing he notices is that it's still night out.

He hasn't stayed unconscious for long, then.

Then his eyes fall on the slumped form of Sandy, asleep on a chair next to the bed. His first reaction is relief—Sandy is a familiar face, a comforting one, and whatever his reasons are for sticking with Ryan, right this moment, Ryan's glad to see him.

Then Ryan notices that the man looks like hell, and guilt sets in. Sandy has spent enough time sitting next to Ryan's bed for a lifetime already, and now here he is, adding to his problems.

Sandy stirs and opens his eyes, sitting straighter when he notices Ryan watching him. "Hey, kid."

"Hey."

There's a tense silence, broken only by the regular beeping of the monitor and muted footsteps in the corridor.

"I'm sorry," Ryan starts, at the same time Sandy says, "Look, Ryan, I'm sorry."

Sandy half-sighs, half-chuckles, and rubs his eyes tiredly. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "Caleb… Well."

He seems at a loss for words.

"Mr. Nichol told the truth," Ryan whispers.

"No," Sandy says quickly. "Caleb told the truth as he sees it. And frankly, his interpretation of events leaves something to be desired."

"Does it?"

Then he grimaces when he feels a dull pain awaken in his head. Sandy must have caught it.

"You need to stay calm," he says. "The doctors told you not to overdo it, and taking off in a run and walking a couple of miles qualify as overdoing it."

Ryan doesn't reply. What he did was stupid, he shouldn't have done it, but that's not the point right now.

"Okay. First of all, we didn't take you in out of charity," Sandy says. "We took you in because we liked you, and we thought you deserved a chance."

…killing my grandson… 

"And you're not a criminal, no matter what Caleb says." Ryan hears a whispered, "He's one to talk, anyway." Then, Sandy focuses on him again. "You're a kid who had a rough life and made a mistake. You paid for it."

…_back to jail where you belong…_

"Ryan?" Sandy asks.

"I think I'd like to be alone," Ryan says, his voice hesitant.

"Fine," Sandy says. He rises up and puts a hand under Ryan's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "But Caleb was wrong. We love you, and we took you in because of that, and nothing will make us change our minds."

"He said I killed your son," Ryan states, hating that his voice sounds so plaintive. _Please, say I didn't do that. _

"Another driver killed our son," Sandy retorts, looking sad and old—the way he always does when he talks about Seth. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Ryan sighs, drops his eyes.

Sandy leans down, forcing eye contact again. "Look at me," he orders.

Ryan does, surprised. He can't remember Sandy ever speaking that forcefully before.

"Do I look at you as if you were responsible for my son's death?"

Ryan swallows convulsively, thinking about how nice Sandy and Kirsten have been to him so far, even in their grief—the room they set up for him, the support they give him through his more angry moments, when he wants to scream because that emptiness in his mind is driving him mad.

"You lost your memories, Ryan, not your intelligence," Sandy adds softly.

When Ryan meets Sandy's eyes he can't see anything but sincerity there.

Ryan nods slowly and drops his head back into his pillow.

"Okay," he says, his voice hoarse. "But I still want to be alone. Please."

Sandy nods, pats his shoulder awkwardly and steps out.

Despite how tired he is, it takes a long time for Ryan to fall asleep that night.

* * *

TBC 


	3. Chapter 2

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

Chapter Two

Ryan never sees Mr. Nichol again after he gets out of the hospital.

As far as he can tell, Kirsten isn't talking to her father anymore, has actually left the Newport Group to avoid seeing him, and he is persona non grata at the Cohens'. Ryan isn't about to complain but he feels bad about that state of affairs. Kirsten has already lost her son, and now her father is out of her life as well. Being the reason behind the falling out is more than enough to make Ryan feel vaguely guilty.

It takes him three days to gather enough courage to apologize to Kirsten.

By then, he's so tired of procrastinating that he just sucks it up and goes look for her, intent on getting it out before he loses his courage again.

He finds her staring at the newspaper in the kitchen, a cup of coffee growing cold on the counter in front of her. He doesn't wait for her to acknowledge his presence, just starts talking, trying to convey in halting words how sorry he is, even if he doesn't know exactly _why_ he's sorry.

Kirsten stands up when he starts talking, but she waits until he's finished before approaching him. "It's not your fault," she says. "None of this is your fault. He should never have said what he said."

…_repaid her by killing my grandson…_

Ryan closes his eyes, hoping it will help him escape the memory.

"Oh, sweetie," Kirsten whispers, her voice hoarse. She pulls Ryan close, her arm warm against his shoulders. When she speaks again, her tone is firm, leaving no room for doubt. "The accident wasn't your fault. I don't know why he said that, but it wasn't. I'm only sorry I didn't react sooner when he said those things."

When Ryan doesn't reply, Kirsten releases him and meets his eyes.

"Listen to me," she urges. "I know you don't remember the accident, but do you remember what we told you?"

He nods silently. At her raised eyebrow, he elaborates, "You said Seth was driving, and someone ran a red light and slammed into us."

The other driver wasn't even drunk, Sandy said. Just distracted; he didn't see the light turn red, didn't see the car in time. Just bad luck.

Kirsten is still staring at him, intent on convincing him. "Do you think we lied?"

Ryan shakes his head—he already had that discussion with Sandy at the hospital and trusts the Cohens a hell of a lot more than he does Mr. Nichol.

"Good," she says. "I won't ask you to forgive him, but please, at least don't believe a word my father told you."

"What he said about my past," Ryan starts. She sighs and looks away. "That was true," he adds.

Kirsten goes back to her seat, rubbing her eyes. "Things didn't happen the way he said they did," she says after a while. "And you may think it doesn't make a difference, but it does."

He isn't that convinced.

"You are a good person, Ryan," she adds almost pleadingly. "Trust me on that, at least, will you?"

_I don't know who to trust_, he wants to say_. I can't even trust myself. I don't know who I am, and I'm not sure you do either._

It isn't anything he hasn't told her already, so he nods and lets it be.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It isn't long before a lady from Social Services pays them a visit.

She spends half an hour talking to the Cohens while Ryan paces in his room, resisting the urge to come downstairs and eavesdrop.

He feels slightly pissed that no one asked him to join the discussion, since he's the one they're talking about, but at the same time, he's not sure he wants to know exactly why they're discussing him. He hasn't done anything wrong and neither have the Cohens, so why is that woman there?

It seems like hours have passed when Kirsten asks Ryan to go to the kitchen. "She wants to talk to you."

She looks tense, and Ryan feels his apprehension rise up a notch.

"What does she want?"

Kirsten pauses mid-step, turns to Ryan. "She just has a few questions," she says.

"That's not what I asked," Ryan points out.

She smiles, looking minutely more relaxed than she did before. "No, it's not. I'm not sure what she wants, but I'm sure it's just routine. Don't worry about it."

_Easier said than done_, Ryan thinks as he takes his place at the kitchen table, facing the social worker.

"Mrs. Davenport," she introduces herself. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? The Cohens will be waiting just outside."

Sandy looks about to protest but a quick gesture from Kirsten silences him, and the Cohens leave, throwing a reassuring smile his way.

Mrs. Davenport then proceeds to ask Ryan, several times, if he likes it with the Cohens, if he's _sure_ he likes it, if they're nice, if they help him enough with his recovery, if the fact that their son had died is distracting them from their duties to Ryan.

Ryan soon loses count of how many times she has asked these questions, instead focussing on the way she talks to him—very slowly and only using the simplest words, as if he's dense on top of amnesic.

He isn't sure what she wants from him, so he sticks with one word answers. Yes, he likes it with the Cohens; yes, they're nice; yes, they help him; no, they're not distracted from their duties—whatever the hell that means—because of their grief.

The Cohens may be strangers to him, but at this point, so is everyone else. The Cohens, at least, are growing familiar to him. He's starting to get used to the way Kirsten rubs his arm and tells him to breathe calmly when he has a headache; the way Sandy keeps ruffling his hair whenever they meet; the way they both look concerned and saddened when Ryan shuts down and glares at the ceiling of his room, frustrated at his lack of memories.

Is that woman trying to make him say he hates it here so she can take him away? The questions she asks him sure seem to lead to that conclusion.

_But why now?_ Ryan wonders, his stomach twisting. _Why not immediately after the accident? Why now that I'm starting to get used to this place?_

The woman is annoying as hell, with her compassionate smile and the way she looks at him—the same way everyone but the Cohens and Summer and Luke look at him, as if he's a total dimwit.

She also makes Ryan very nervous. Is there an ulterior motive to her visit? If so, he can't see what it is. Is he just being paranoid?

He wonders if he would understand better if he had his memories intact. After all, given his history, he must have met with his fair share of social workers before.

Actually, for all he knows, she may be the social worker who handled his case when he came live with the Cohens. The thought is disturbing—she may know a lot about his past when he doesn't know the first thing about her. Naturally, everyone could claim as much these days.

There's no time to dwell on that now, no time to wonder about the woman's insistence or about whether or not they've met before. So, he says, "I'm fine here," keeping his tone firm.

Mrs. Davenport nods, takes a few notes and makes a move to pat his head as she's leaving.

_Like she'd pat a dog_, he thinks, disgusted, moving away from her.

He waits for a few minutes, trying to listen to what the woman is telling the Cohens, but he can't make it out.

When the Cohens come back into the kitchen, Ryan's relieved to see that they look slightly less tense than when they left.

"Is everything okay?" Ryan asks carefully.

"Sure," Sandy says. "They're just checking that you're fine here."

_Why wouldn't I be_? Ryan wonders again. "Yeah?"

Kirsten smiles reassuringly. "Yes. Don't worry; everything is fine."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It's late that night when Sandy carefully steps into Ryan's room. Ryan has been lying in the dark for hours, his talk with Mrs. Davenport playing over and over again in his head, trying to find out, from what she said, what her goal was.

He doesn't doubt the Cohens are telling the truth when they claim it was just a routine visit, but Ryan still feels wary.

Was he always that untrusting of Social Services?

And if so, what does the fact that he still is mean? Is it an echo of his past self, something of himself that survived the accident? Or did he merely hear too many stories in which social workers were, if not the bad guys, at least unsympathetic and cold characters?

"You awake?" Sandy whispers.

"Yeah." He sits up slowly, legs outstretched on the bed.

"Up for a meaningful talk?"

Ryan shrugs. Predictably, Sandy takes this as a yes and sits next to Ryan, not bothering to switch on the light. He doesn't say anything at first, which strikes Ryan as odd; he has already had many opportunities to observe that the man likes to talk.

"I don't know what you want from me," Ryan says when he feels that if the silence stretches longer, he's going to start screaming.

"I don't know what you want from us. I don't know what's going through your head. I have no idea how to make any of this better. And if I feel that confused, I hate to think about what you're going through," Sandy retorts.

"I just…" _I just don't remember _anything_. I'm sick of it. And this woman and the way she looked at me, and fuck, everything's just too much right now._

"You just what?" Sandy asks gently.

"I don't know. I can't get used to anything. And my mother doesn't want me anymore. I'm stuck on that." _And on everything else, too, but mostly on that._

He trails off. Sandy's hand comes to rest on his back, but the man still doesn't say anything.

"Was it like this the first time, too?" Ryan asks.

"I don't know. You never said anything. Not about that, not about what your life was like. Not really."

Ryan looks sideways, trying to decipher Sandy's expression in the dark. He has been told before that he has never been talkative, but not talking about such a huge thing seems hard to believe. "I didn't?"

"No. Which leads me to believe that you were deeply hurt, but didn't know how to talk about it. We never pushed you. You were always so damn skittish, even then, and we thought that when you trusted us enough, you would come to us." Regret tinges Sandy's tone when he adds, "If you only knew how much I regret that now, not having pushed you more. At least then maybe I could answer some of your questions."

"It's okay," Ryan offers. "I get why you didn't. And it's not… I do like it here. It's just that I have no idea what my life would be like elsewhere, and I think I'm supposed to know." He groans, frustrated. He has no idea how to even start explaining what he's feeling.

"I think I know what you mean," Sandy offers hesitantly. "And it's true that when you remembered your life with your other family, you at least had an idea of what the better and the worse of it was. Now you don't have anything but us, right?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know what to do about it, though."

Ryan shrugs. He didn't expect Sandy to have all the answers—or any answer at all. He actually likes that Sandy is willing to admit that there are things he doesn't know. It makes Ryan feel less like a failure when he can't understand, well, pretty much everything that happens to him.

"Is Social Services going to take me away?" Ryan asks. _Do you want them to?_

"No. It was just a routine visit, Ryan. I promise."

Ryan hesitates for a long, painful while before whispering, "You know, you don't _have_ to take me in, right? After what happened, I'd understand if you guys—"

He doesn't get any farther than that before Sandy raises a hand. "We would never throw you out," he says. "You're part of the family, now, and nothing will change that."

Ryan feels like his heart is starting to beat again. Funny, he hadn't realized it had stopped.

"You're stuck with us, and even if anyone tries to take you away… well, over my dead body, kid."

Ryan hears the promise and believes it.

* * *

TBC 


	4. Chapter 3

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

About a month after Mrs. Davenport calls them to say that she found Ryan's living conditions "satisfactory," Sandy announces that an old friend of his is opening a law firm in San Francisco.

Kirsten doesn't look half as surprised as Ryan feels. "Are you interested?"

"Well, it would mean moving from Newport," Sandy points out. He doesn't seem heartbroken by the idea, but then it's obvious that he doesn't care much for the town.

Kirsten turns to Ryan, who's playing with his food and wondering how long the Cohens have been thinking about moving, and if they really think they're being subtle. "What do you think?" she asks.

"Does it matter?" Ryan replies, back-pedalling when he sees her frown. "I mean, it's your decision to make, isn't it?"

"Ryan, you're part of the family," Sandy says. "Your opinion counts and we'll listen to it."

Sandy doesn't promise they'll comply, and Ryan decides, again, that he likes the guy. At least he doesn't treat Ryan with kid's gloves.

"I don't care," he says. "I don't remember ever living here anyway. At least, in a new town, I'll have an excuse for not knowing where the nearest 7/11 is."

Sandy smiles. "Good point."

"Well, then," Kirsten says, smiling cheerfully.

And just like that, the decision is made.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On one of the hottest days of the summer, shortly after announcing that they're leaving town, Kirsten enters Ryan's room, handing him a phone. Ryan briefly fears that Marissa might be calling him. Not that she doesn't seem nice or anything, but he finds the way she keeps crying every time he tells her that he doesn't remember anything yet, deeply disturbing.

"It's Luke," Kirsten says, correctly interpreting his deer-in-the-headlights expression.

Luke had moved to Oregon two weeks earlier, but he visited Ryan a few times before that, and he has already called once since arriving.

Ryan takes the phone with a nod of thanks. "Hello?"

"Hi, man." He expects Luke's first question to be about the state of his memory (Marissa's favourite topic), but Luke surprises him. "So, how are things in Newport?"

"Fine, I guess."

Luke snorts. "Good to know you're still as talkative as you were."

"Was I really that bad?" he asks before he can think twice about it.

He's not sure he likes how needy his questions are starting to sound.

He's not sure he cares.

Both Sandy and Kirsten have told him that, in many ways, he hasn't changed that much, that they can still see the boy he used to be.

He wants to believe them, but taking the word of almost-strangers just isn't enough.

He wants to know what he was like before the accident, and he's willing to listen to anyone who might give him tips—because perhaps different viewpoints will give him a more complete idea of who he was. He wants to know if the way he's acting is like him or not. Sandy has argued countless times that it doesn't matter how he would have felt if he still had all his memories intact, that all that matters is how he feels now, but Ryan doesn't agree. He needs to know more, needs more to go on.

So much of the basic stuff is missing—is he better at English or at math? Is he messy or tidy? Is he quick-tempered or level-headed? Is he funny or, well, not?

Sandy recently told him, "What counts is what you like now. I know it's disturbing not being able to remember what you used to like, but trust your instincts, kid. Trust what you feel, not what you should have felt."

But to Ryan, that would be admitting defeat. He doesn't want things to come to that; he's not ready yet to give up on who he was.

He craves information like others crave food or alcohol or sex.

"I'm sorry," Luke says. "I shouldn't have said—"

"It's okay," he throws in quickly. "It's just that… well."

"Yeah. Well, to answer your question, yes. You didn't say much. Of course, next to Cohen, anyone would seem quiet. Man, the kid could talk."

Ryan smiles—he has heard stories about Seth's legendary ability to babble.

"So," Luke says. "I hear you'll be leaving town soon."

"Yeah."

"You won't miss Newport?"

"I doubt it. Nice place to look at, but…"

"Yeah," Luke says. "Newport kind of sucks."

Ryan hums in agreement.

"How about Chino?" Luke asks after a beat. "Did you go back there?"

"Yeah. Couple of weeks ago." Ryan absently picks up a book and starts leafing through the pages without actually seeing anything. "It was…"

It was weird, and uncomfortable and disappointing, but he doesn't feel like spelling it out. He shrugs as Luke asks, "How so?"

"I think Sandy was hoping it would bring back… something," he says. "It didn't."

He can almost _hear_ Luke roll his eyes. "Okay, but not everything in life is about whether or not it brings back something, right? How did you find the place? Did you meet people you knew?"

Ryan thinks back about the visit, remembering the trashy house where Sandy told him he used to live, the few pictures of his biological family Sandy found in Ryan's wallet after the accident, the school where he used to go and a park nearby where he must have gone, even though Sandy says it was never mentioned.

All these places where he spent years, and which now don't make him feel anything but frustration, because try as he might, he can't feel nostalgic, or sad, or happy, or anything when he thinks about them.

"I met my brother," Ryan says. "It was weird. He looked pissed off. And worried."

Trey flat out refused to reply to his questions. "Believe me, bro, you're better off not knowing," he said when Ryan tried to ask questions about their past.

Ryan would have pushed, if Trey hadn't looked so edgy, so trapped.

"Did he say anything?"

"He said that I looked happy the last time I saw him, and that he thought the Cohens were nice to me," Ryan says, closing the book he had been fingering. "He wasn't that talkative."

Luke laughs out loud at that. "Big surprise, Atwood. Must be a hereditary trait."

"Whatever," Ryan retorts. He can feel Luke's about to ask another question, but Ryan beats him to it. "You haven't told me about life in Oregon," he says.

He doesn't want to talk about Theresa—how sad she looked when she saw that he didn't remember her, how cute she looked when she told him, "We were friends, most of the time. And more than friends sometimes." How she hugged him, told him to be happy, told him to call if he ever was in Chino again.

"Oh, it's fine," Luke says. "Kind of good to be away from all the shit."

Ryan isn't sure exactly what kind of shit that was but doesn't ask. Luke will tell him if he feels like it.

"A little boring," Luke adds.

"Is that why you called?"

"You got it," Luke replies cheerfully. "You mind?"

Ryan considers the question carefully. "No," he eventually answers. "I really don't."

"Good," Luke enthuses. "'Cause I got lots more to say."

Ryan smiles, and settles for the long haul.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once the Cohens make their decision, things happen fast. A month after their first discussion, they're moving—a month passed in a blur of packing and deciding what to take with them, of looking at pictures of houses, of Sandy going back and forth between Newport and San Francisco to get acquainted with the town.

A month during which Kirsten is often found crying in Seth's room, while she tries to decide what to keep and what to give to charity. Ryan fails to see what he can do to help, so he just lets Sandy handle the comforting, feeling inadequate and frustrated at his inability to reach out to her.

But maybe this all gives him a clue as to why the Cohens are in such a hurry to leave Newport. It must be hard for them to live in this house, where everything reminds them of the son they lost.

Sandy leaves two days before Kirsten and Ryan do, to get the house ready with the help of his friend and now colleague.

Ryan spends his last day in Newport enjoying the sun on the patio while Kirsten finishes packing. She didn't want help and he understands her desire for space. It's the least he can do for her.

He's starting to fall asleep when a hesitant voice startles him.

"Ryan?"

He blinks in the sun and tries to smile at Marissa. Summer already came to say goodbye—she cried a little in Kirsten's arms, then hugged Ryan and whispered, "Call me from time to time, or I'll have to come up there and kick your ass, Chino," and left hurriedly.

Marissa looks sad and hurt, and Ryan supposes he should have called her, but he just couldn't bring himself to make her cry again.

He hates it when people cry.

"Hi," he says, aiming for casual.

She sits next to him, biting her bottom lip. "So, you're leaving tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

There's a loaded silence, and they start speaking again at the same time, grimacing and fumbling awkwardly for the right thing to say.

"I'm sorry," Ryan eventually manages to say. "It's not fair to you."

She shakes her head, the sun making her hair shine. "It's okay. I just wish…"

"The accident had never happened?" Ryan supplies.

She has a strangled, nervous laugh. "It was terrifying. Summer was crying. It was the first time I'd seen her cry since her mother left. And you and Seth… you weren't answering, and there was blood everywhere…"

Ryan automatically put a hand to his head. He can feel the scars under his fingers, even though his hair is growing longer and mostly hiding them.

"And then you woke up, and…"

And he was a stranger to her, just as everyone was a stranger to him.

"I'm sorry," he says again. It doesn't change anything, but he doesn't know what else he can say, and she deserves that much.

And he is sorry. She lost her boyfriend, and he can't bring himself to miss her, no matter how much he tries. He hates how heartless it makes him sound, but he can't help it.

"I guess I just wanted to say goodbye."

They share a small smile, and when he rises to his feet, she follows suit.

She hugs him awkwardly, kisses him softly on the lips, blinking back tears, and walks away, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

He doesn't hear Kirsten approach and startles when she asks, "You okay?"

_Not really, no_. "Sure."

She shakes her head in disbelief, and puts a hand on his shoulders. "Wanna come inside and give me a hand?"

He nods gratefully and follows her in.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan spends most of the trip to San Francisco pretending to sleep to hide the fact that the slight beginning of a headache he started to suffer from two hours into the trip had evolved into a full-blown migraine two hours later.

He doesn't want to stop and take pills; they make him nauseous and he doesn't need that right now.

The only thing he wants is get into bed, and that's not going to happen until they reach their new house, so he just grits his teeth and wills the car to move faster.

It isn't the worst migraine he has suffered since the accident, but it comes damn close. It's astonishing that Kirsten hasn't noticed it yet—either Ryan is getting better at hiding his discomfort, or she's too busy focussing on the road and too preoccupied by the fact that she has left her family and her friends behind.

The doctors have assured him that the headaches would grow less frequent with time and would probably disappear altogether, eventually.

All well and good, but in the meantime, they hurt like hell.

When the car finally stops and Kirsten says, "We're here," all Ryan wants to do is curl up in a bed and pass out. Grimacing in the harsh glare of the sun, he forces himself to get out of the car and start moving.

Sandy has come out of the house to greet them. Upon seeing Ryan, who's using all his concentration not to fall down, he asks, "Of all the… Why the hell didn't you take something?"

"Ryan?" Kirsten calls, her voice suddenly concerned.

"And how are you even still standing?" Sandy adds to Ryan.

Sandy's tone is too loud for Ryan's taste—in fact, now that he's not sitting anymore, everything seems too loud for Ryan—and he says, "If you don't stop yelling, I'm going to throw up."

Sandy takes his arm and gently guides him toward the house, Kirsten following close behind. She's talking in hurried tones, but she keeps her voice low. "I can't believe I didn't see this. Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you ask me for the painkillers?"

"I didn't want to take the damn pills where it would be difficult to get sick," Ryan says through clenched teeth.

That decision seems stupid now, especially since he doesn't even make it to the door before getting sick in a bush he hopes is theirs. Sandy, supporting most of Ryan's weight, mutters a sarcastic, "Yeah, good call."

Ryan manages to reach his bed with Sandy's help, then allows himself to sink into oblivion on a last whispered, "Sorry."

"Welcome to San Francisco, kid," Sandy says, rubbing his back comfortingly.

* * *

TBC 


	5. Chapter 4

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

To Ryan's relief, San Francisco is nothing like Newport.

No overbuilt houses, no infinity pools, no fake breasts/lips/faces/smiles.

No over expensive clothes, no insanely luxurious cars.

And even better, no one looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to wake up and say, "Hey, I remember the time when—"

There's no one here but the Cohens and they don't seem disappointed when, morning after morning, he wakes up with a life worth of memories still missing. They don't push him to talk, don't push him to make new friends or to stay in touch with the old ones. He's sure that'll change eventually, but for now, they're just there, making sure he knows they're available if he needs to talk, making sure he gets enough rest, enough food, enough of everything.

He feels like he can breathe here, which is much more than he has ever been able to say in Southern California.

Even the house they now live in is very different from the house in Newport—it's an old house that hasn't been lived in for three years and needs some serious remodeling.

"We could hire someone to fix all that," Kirsten says, gesturing to the faded wallpaper. "But I'd rather we do it ourselves. Together."

She's looking at Ryan, waiting for his reaction.

Ryan takes a look around him, tries to imagine what the room would look like painted in yellow—it would certainly enhance the rich color of wooden floorboards. And maybe dark blue curtains?

"Sure," he says when he realizes that Kirsten is still waiting for an answer. "Sounds good."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It only takes a few days for the Cohens and Ryan to get settled. The Cohens brought very little from Newport with them, preferring to buy new furniture

Ryan wonders if this is their way of starting anew, of forgetting Newport. Maybe they don't want to be reminded of Seth every time they see his favorite couch, his favorite chair, his favorite anything. Ryan doubts it, though. After all, they did bring all their pictures with them, and they're sure to think about Seth and their past lives every time they catch a glimpse of them.

As the sun sets at the end of their fifth day in town, Ryan finds Kirsten putting framed pictures on the mantle, tears in her eyes.

Seth is in most of them—a young kid with unruly hair, scowling at the camera. A teenager, looking bored and resentful. And in a few of the pictures, Seth's beaming, and holding Ryan's arm, probably forcing him to stay put long enough for the picture to be taken.

Not for the first time, Ryan wonders if the Cohens ever wonder why their son died when the stranger they took in didn't. God knows Ryan frequently wonders about that himself.

He can't do anything to help them, except listen when they talk about Seth, and that seems woefully inadequate.

Ryan tries to withdraw without disturbing Kirsten, but the floor creaks under his weight, startling her.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay." She turns back to the pictures. "I was just remembering when we took that picture."

She picks it up and hands it to Ryan, who hesitantly approaches and takes it. It's a picture of Seth and him in the pool; Seth is shooting at him with a water pistol, and Ryan looks torn between amusement and annoyance.

Kirsten's voice is soft when she speaks. "It was shortly before the start of the year at Harbor. You had been with us for, oh, about three or four weeks by then."

_I don't remember_, he almost says. Of course, she knows that already.

"He kept dragging you to the pool, to the pier, to his boat. I was always worried that you were just humoring him, that you were overwhelmed but didn't dare to say anything. Seth could be very persistent sometimes."

Ryan nods. He may not have anything to offer her, but he feels like he owes it to the Cohens, and to everyone who knew and loved Seth, to listen to their stories—perhaps that way, he'll learn to remember him too.

"He was very… Seth."

"That's what Summer and Luke told me," Ryan offers. "That he was very Seth."

Kirsten smiles then, a real smile, and Ryan feels like maybe, he just managed to do something right.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Getting into school proves both easier and more difficult than Ryan imagined.

He sits in the principal's office as the man skims his file, frowning at some of what he finds, and looking up in surprise at one point.

Sandy is sitting next to Ryan, tense and ready for battle.

It turns out to be unnecessary.

"Colorful file," the principal—Dr. Greene, he introduced himself—says when he's done.

"Ryan—" Sandy starts.

Dr. Greene raises a hand to stop him and looks at Ryan. "You've obviously had problems in the past, and you've just as obviously worked hard to get over them. Dr. Kim wrote quite a complimentary letter about you, and I know her by reputation. Her approval is hard to earn."

Ryan shoots a look at Sandy, who looks as surprised as Ryan feels—that's not the reaction he expected—then turns his attention back to Dr. Greene.

"I'm more worried about your present circumstances."

Ryan sees Sandy shift out of the corner of his eye, but Dr. Greene is clearly waiting for him to reply. "You mean the amnesia."

"Yes."

There's an uncomfortable silence that Ryan doesn't feel particularly inclined to break.

"Ryan remembers what he has learned previously," Sandy throws in.

Dr. Greene shoots him a quick glance then gets back to Ryan.

"There are placement tests," he says. "Just so we can be sure we put you in the right grade."

Ryan would like to be able to pretend that he cares about school, if only for the Cohens' sake, but he finds it hard to look properly motivated. What he wants to learn, he won't find in books.

Still, he needs to go to school eventually, so if the man wants him to take tests, he won't waste his energy trying to protest. What would be the point?

"Sure," he tells Dr. Greene.

"We can give you a few days to prepare, if you want to—"

"No, thanks, sir," Ryan says. After the ten thousand questions the doctors asked him in the weeks he spent in the hospital, he's fairly confident in his abilities to pass this test.

Dr. Greene nods as if he expected that answer. "Very well."

He asks Sandy to wait outside, hands a few printed sheets to Ryan and sits at his desk, burying himself into paperwork while Ryan answers questions on subjects ranging from the Civil War to calculus to the capital city of India.

How fucking ironic, Ryan thinks, that he can remember all that stuff and not have any idea what his mother's voice sounds like.

He doesn't remember what the house he lived in when he was six looked like but he can spell "magnanimous."

He can't remember what he got for his last birthday but he can answer that physics questions about a moving vehicle hitting a wall (at least, it's not a question about two moving vehicles colliding at an intersection).

"Are you done?" Dr. Greene asks, an hour later.

Ryan hands him the copy without comment and the principal frowns at him. "You okay?"

Ryan nods unconvincingly. It's unsettling to recall all that stuff, and not remember how and when he studied it. He doesn't have any memory at all of ever sitting down with his books and reading them, let alone studying for an exam, and yet he must have done so, or else he wouldn't even have understood the questions.

He's not about to say so to a stranger. "Sure, fine," he says.

Dr Greene shakes his head, unconvinced. "We'll call you later today with the results. And we'll have some forms for you and your guardians to fill out tomorrow."

"Life is but an endless series of forms to fill out," Sandy says when Ryan relays Dr. Greene's words to him. He throws an arm around Ryan's shoulder and leads him back to the car. "Believe me, I'm a lawyer. I know."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan knows he's dreaming.

He always knows he's dreaming.

It never stops him from waking up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, breaths coming in short gasps.

Sometimes, it's Mr. Nichol yelling at him.

…_killing my grandson…_

Sometimes, it's Social Services deciding to take him away.

Sometimes, it's Sandy or Kirsten explaining to him that they're sorry, they just can't face him every day, because he reminds them too much of the son they lost.

Every single time he wakes up from these dreams—no, not dreams, they're nightmares, he might as well call them by their name—he spends hours lying in the dark, a hard ball of undefined fear in the pit of his stomach.

He knows that the Cohens would never send him away. He knows that Social Services would have acted sooner if they were planning to take him away. He knows that Caleb is trying to mend things with Kirsten and wouldn't dare try to pull anything on Ryan.

Yet…

Yet, his brain keeps insisting that so many things could go wrong; it would take so little to shatter his life, so little to change everything again. It's like hanging on by a thin, fragile thread that could break at any time.

Tonight is no different.

It's nightmare number one that wakes him up. The hatred in Mr. Nichol's face, the venom in his voice, the spiteful words. Ryan's not sure what he ever did to provoke so much anger, he's not even sure he wants to know, but he sure as hell won't ever forget the look the man gave him.

Ryan spends nearly half an hour remembering the nightmare, analyzing it, convincing himself that Mr. Nichol is far away and won't be able to do anything to him.

He wonders if his past self was scared of the man as well, or if he was able to just shrug it off.

At two in the morning, still wide awake, Ryan gives up on trying to sleep and silently makes his way downstairs. Perhaps moving around and drinking something will help him to unwind and if it doesn't, well, it will at least pass time.

He never meant to eavesdrop, but Kirsten's words stop him in his tracks as he walks past the door of the Cohens' room.

"I'm just not sure we're doing enough for him. How can we know that we're doing enough?"

Sandy's reply is too soft to hear, and Ryan takes a step closer to the door, subconsciously holding his breath.

"I know, but... He doesn't even ask anymore. Should we just volunteer information? Should we wait until he asks again?"

"Honey, it has only been a few weeks and he has had to adjust to a new town, and soon to a new school. Let's give him some time."

There's a silence, and Ryan can almost imagine them huddled close together.

"Besides," Sandy says, "It's not like we'll ever be able to tell him much more than we already have about his past."

"I know." There's another silence, longer this time. Just as Ryan is starting to think that the conversation is over, Kirsten speaks again, her voice so quiet that Ryan almost misses it. "I miss them both. Seth, and even Ryan… I love him, and I still see the boy he was sometimes, but it's not the same. That man… he took them both from us."

Her voice breaks and Ryan hears a sob, followed by a shushing noise. He wants nothing more than go back to bed now, but he's frozen in place, his heart hammering in his chest.

He hears some more rustling in the room, more shushing noises—Sandy must be trying to console his wife. Eventually, things quiet down.

Silently, Ryan turns back and tip toes to his room, all thoughts about a drink forgotten.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan gets through the first semester of school by keeping a low profile. He answers questions when called upon by a teacher, doesn't annoy anyone, and makes acceptable grades without attracting any attention to himself.

He doesn't seek out other students' company; he doesn't want to start explaining where he's from, what happened to him, and why he lives with people who don't share his name.

He wants to be left alone, and the other students seem happy enough to respect his wishes.

Ryan goes through five very frustrating therapy sessions, at the Cohens' insistence—"You know the doctors back home recommended it."—before convincing the Cohens that not only is it not helping, it's actually making things worse. Therapy is like running around in circles, making him repeat the same things he has been telling the Cohens over and over again. It's not helping him deal. It's making him more frustrated, encouraging him to dwell on what he lost instead of moving on.

How many times is he expected to say that he doesn't remember his past and that it's driving him insane?

Does anyone think that will make him feel better?

"I know it's hard, but it's only the beginning," Kirsten tries.

"It's been five weeks." Ryan sighs, feeling the beginning of a familiar tension headache, the way he usually does when he gets out of the therapist's office after a session. "It's just not helping, Kirsten."

She talks it over with Sandy and they both agree to drop the therapy. "For now. But, Ryan, it might be necessary again at some point."

"Whatever." As long as it's later.

Way, way later.

Their lives have fallen into a routine; Sandy and Kirsten have started their new jobs; the three of them have started working on the kitchen, spending their weekends painting and looking for new furniture. And Ryan mostly feels content with life. Maybe he'd be even more content if he suddenly remembered everything, but at least, the loss doesn't hurt as much; it's still there, dull and growing distant, but certainly not as sharp as it was in the beginning.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan never planned on making friends.

It just happens, in a slightly brutal and traumatic way.

"It's the way you tend to do pretty much everything, I'm afraid," Sandy tells him later that night, when Ryan's finally coherent enough to hear him.

To which Ryan can only reply, "It's not like I planned it."

'Cause yeah, a mugging on the way to school definitely wasn't part of his plans for the day.

"Yeah. You almost never do, kid."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The day starts normally enough. Ryan is walking on the same streets he walks every day, paying only distant attention to what's going on around him. He doesn't hear the hurried footsteps behind him, isn't even aware that he's being followed until someone runs past him, grabbing his backpack and trying to take off in a run.

Reflexively, Ryan catches the strap and hangs on.

The guy who was trying to steal it comes to a stop, surprise written all over his face. It's just a kid, Ryan notices. Barely older than he is.

They face each other for a few seconds before the kid, still holding on to the backpack, tries to take off with it again.

Ryan knows he should probably just let the kid take it. That's what everyone always says, isn't it? _Don't resist and maybe you won't get hurt_.

But for some reason, Ryan just hangs on tighter.

"Leave it, man," the kid says, trying to look tough.

Some part of Ryan is yelling at him to let go, and not make the situation escalate even more. It's not like he won't be able to replace it.

At the same time, he's starting to feel a little pissed off. It may be just a backpack, but it's _his_, and damn it, why should he allow the other kid to have it?

He wonders if the owner of the car that he and his brother stole felt the same way, but shrugs off the thought, annoyed. Now is really not the time.

He pulls at the strap he's holding, hard, and the kid lets go, jaw clenched. They look at each other for a while, then the kid huffs, makes a move as if to turn away.

In retrospect, Ryan really should have seen it coming, but the fist colliding with his face still takes him by surprise. He stumbles back and brings a hand up to protect himself, letting go of the bag. He's not quick enough to avoid another punch.

He falls backward, landing hard on the sidewalk.

The kid leans down to grab the bag again but a shouted "Hey!" from behind Ryan makes him stop.

"Fuck." He spits at Ryan, mercifully missing him by a few inches, and takes off in a run as Ryan tries to push himself up on his elbows.

A hand on his shoulder startles him and he jerks away.

"Hey, sorry, man."

Ryan sighs and gingerly touches his left cheek—where the kid got him the first time.

Yup, that one's gonna leave a big bruise.

That should be fun to explain.

"You okay?"

Someone is crouching next to him, and Ryan glances over long enough to recognize a student from his World Lit. class. Matt… something.

"Yeah," he says, surprised at how shaky his voice sounds. "Fine."

Matt looks at him doubtfully. "If you say so…"

Ryan smiles. "Thanks." With Matt's help, he manages to get to his feet and shakes his head softly.

That's when he first feels the slight throb that usually announces a migraine. He grimaces. The last one was the one he got when he arrived in town, and he really, really doesn't want a repeat performance.

"You look like shit. Maybe you should just go home for the day," Matt offers.

Ryan thinks about it briefly, then decides against it. One of the Cohens would feel obligated to stay with him and he doesn't want to bother them. They're both trying to get a start on their new jobs; they don't need to nurse him all day.

"I'll be fine," he replies. He slings the backpack over his shoulder, manages what he hopes is a convincing smile and motions in the direction of the school. "We're gonna be late."

Matt still looks unsure, but Ryan starts walking, hoping he's not making a major mistake.

* * *

TBC 


	6. Chapter 5

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

It turns out that going to school is a _very_ bad idea.

Big surprise.

For a while, Ryan thinks he's going to be fine. Sure, the dull throbbing is annoying, and he can't focus enough to take notes, which is unfortunate but not catastrophic.

The dull throbbing becomes a sharp pain around noon—not sharp enough to be incapacitating, but definitely sharp enough for Ryan to re-think his decision. He should call the Cohens, ask them to come get him, and crawl back in bed.

Home sounds like bliss right now.

He has pain pills home. He doesn't take them with him anymore because it has been so long since the last migraine, and because he didn't expect to take a knock to the head when he left home in the morning.

Foolish oversight.

The mere thought of the pain pills is enough to make him grab his phone from his bag.

Then, he pictures Sandy, or Kirsten, having to leave their work and drive half an hour to pick him up, and he gives up on the idea. He can make it through the day without bothering them. He just needs to take some Tylenol and hope it helps. In a few hours, he'll be able to go home and rest. He can make it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Tylenol doesn't help.

Neither does the chemistry teacher's rant directed at two students who almost blow up the lab. For a second, Ryan feels dangerously close to throwing up on his desk, but he manages to take deep breaths until it passes. The guy seated next to him shoots him a strange look but Ryan ignores him.

By the time Ryan gets out of school and starts walking home, all he can think is, "Hurts," sometimes intermingled with "Fuck," and "Shit." Not very elaborate, but it about sums it up.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck._

_Hurts._

_Fuck._

Ryan tries walking faster—he needs to get home now, or he's going to pass out on the street, and wouldn't that be a wonderful end to a no-less delightful day?

Walking faster just makes things worse, which shouldn't have been possible.

He stops walking, wondering what he should do next.

Breathe calmly?

Sit down on the curb before he falls down?

Call the Cohens?

All of the above?

Before he can reach a decision, someone taps on his shoulder, startling him.

He spins around too fast—yet another mistake.

Ryan's legs instantly turn to rubber and he falls to his knees. The impact sends another fresh wave of pain through his head. For a moment, it feels like someone is prodding his brain with a white-hot poker and he bites down a cry.

Shit.

Ryan hears a startled, "Hey," feels hands grab his arms to prevent him from face planting, and loses the battle against nausea. He barely has time to shrug off the arms around him and to lean over before he starts throwing up.

"Fuck!" he hears.

He can only agree, as the heaving makes the pain even worse.

But there's a bright side to the blinding pain he's experiencing.

At least he's way past caring who's watching him empty his gut.

Scratch that, there are two bright sides.

At least, now, things can't get any worse.

"You okay, man?"

"Fine," he manages to croak.

There's a sharp laugh above him. Then, he feels hands under his arms, dragging him up. "Come on, man," he hears. "We're going to attract tourists if we stay here. I live close by. Let's get moving."

He tries to stand on his feet, but his legs can't carry him. He starts to fall and hears a grunt. "Shit."

Another voice adds to the mix. "Matt? Need help?"

"Yeah. He's kind of heavy."

Another pair of hands settle on Ryan's arms and he allows himself to be half-lead, half-carried away.

He doesn't see anything anymore, doesn't even know if his eyes are open or closed. All he knows is that he's dizzy, and fuck, the pain is sharp, and pulsing with every step he takes—or tries to take.

He bumps against something, hears one of the guys carrying him swear, feels himself being hefted a little higher.

He thinks they climb up stairs at some point, and he allows his wingmen to guide him through a corridor, unresisting when they lie him down on something soft. They sit him up again to take off his jacket, and when they roll him over to his side, he gets sick again.

Then, there's a cool hand brushing against his cheek.

He hears a female voice from somewhere above him, and a male voice replying, but he can't make out words.

The voices fade into the distance and Ryan gratefully slips into unconsciousness.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He awakes to someone calling his name and groans.

He doesn't want to wake up.

He feels someone shaking him, and tries to open his eyes.

"—ambulance," he hears.

"No," he whispers.

"Ryan—"

That voice is familiar, comforting. Ryan needs to think about it for a moment before it comes back.

"Sandy?"

"Yeah." A slight squeeze on his arm, a hand on his forehead.

"No hospital," Ryan says, his voice barely audible.

"Ryan…"

Ryan drifts off again.

The next time he comes to, there's someone sitting next to him, talking with Sandy.

"I'm sure it's not. I'll swing by your house tomorrow, and of course, don't hesitate to call me if there's any change."

Something cold brushes his upper arm and he feels a sting and a slight burn.

"He should sleep for a few hours still."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Ryan?"

Very slowly, he opens his eyes. The room he's in is dark and quiet, and he sighs in relief when it dawns on him that his head doesn't hurt as much as it did before.

He looks around, careful not to move too quickly. Sandy crouching next to him, studying him.

"Hey," Ryan croaks, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds.

"Does your head still hurt?"

"A little. Not as much." He swallows painfully, his throat dry. Sandy hands him a glass of water, and he takes a few sips. "What happened?" he asks.

"Looks like you made a slight strategic mistake." Ryan flushes at the look of concern on his face. "Why didn't you call?" Sandy asks.

_I didn't want to bother you_, Ryan wants to say. He knows what Sandy would say to that, though.

Sandy nods as if he expected as such. "A kid from your school was following you when you were coming back home. You looked about to pass out so he tried to ask you if there was a problem." He smiles at Ryan, part compassionate, part amused. "He was a little surprised when you fell down, and even more so when you got sick. But he's grateful you avoided his shoes."

Ryan groans and throws an arm over his face. Sandy chuckles. "Yeah. He lives close by, so he brought you to his place, and you passed out. You've been out for a few hours now."

"Sorry?" Ryan tries.

Sandy sighs. "I called a doctor friend of mine. He accepted to come as a favor. He says you'll be fine. It could have been serious, Ryan. You fell down this morning, you could have had a concussion, you could…" He trails off.

"I'm sorry," Ryan repeats.

Sandy shakes his head softly. "We'll discuss it later. Can you make it home?"

Ryan sits up slowly, considering the matter. "I think so. He gave me something, didn't he?"

"Yes. I'll go say goodbye and thank our hosts. I'll be right back."

Ryan hums in agreement, and sinks back into the couch, eyes closed.

Almost as soon as Sandy has gone, a door creaks open. "Sandy?"

"Nope," a vaguely familiar voice replies.

Ryan opens his eyes and finds himself face to face with Matt, who's studying him with interest.

"You look kind of rough."

"Yeah." Ryan mentally cringes at the thought that he has been sick in front of this guy. Great.

"Your dad is going to be here soon, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"He's not my dad," Ryan blurts out. He grimaces, because fuck, that's not what he meant. "I mean, I live with him, but he's not my father."

Matt looks unperturbed. "Okay. Well, he looks cool."

Ryan smiles. "He is. And, you know, thanks… I don't really remember, so I guess I must have been pretty messed up."

He doesn't like to think about what could have happened to him on the street—given the state he was in, he probably would have allowed anyone to take him away.

Actually, that's exactly what he did.

"No problem," Matt says. "See you at school tomorrow."

"Yeah," Ryan replies. "See you."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It's actually two days before Ryan feels good enough to go back to school.

He spends the better part of these two days apologizing to the Cohens, trying to explain to them why he acted like he did when he doesn't understand it himself.

Was it unwillingness to bother them? Embarrassment at having been punched in the face…twice? Stubbornness?

Reasons don't seem matter to Kirsten. "Should such a thing happen again, you are to call us," she orders. "If you don't, I swear I'll ground your ass for the next decade. I don't care if we're busy, I don't care if you only have a small scratch. I won't have you passing out on the street again."

Kirsten makes a very convincing bad cop when she puts her mind to it.

"Okay," he says. "Sorry."

Since he's stuck home, he decides he might as well put the time to good use and calls both Summer and Luke.

Summer tells him more about Newport than he ever wanted to know—a girl was found giving a blow job to the newest Dean of Discipline in a closet? Did these things happen in real life?

Luke laughs at him for several long minutes when Ryan tells him about his latest encounter—"Man, I swear, you attract these weirdos. You must send out, 'Punch me now' vibes."

Despite the teasing and the TMI factor, they manage to cheer him up—and neither of them asks him if he remembers them yet. They just share stories from their lives with him, encouraging him to do the same.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Going back to school is unnerving.

Getting mugged would have been bad enough, but passing out and throwing up in front of two of his classmates on top of it was really taking it to another level.

Still, nothing eventful happens. No one looks at him differently despite the bruises on his face. No one tries to talk to him. Everything is the way it was three days before.

Then, at lunch, Matt walks to Ryan's table, says, "Hey," sets his tray of food next to Ryan's and slides on the bench.

"Hey," Ryan replies carefully.

Matt doesn't let Ryan's lack of enthusiasm deter him. He takes a hearty bite of his sandwich, smiles and asks, "Did you actually get why reading _Madame Bovary_ is important and will change our lives, or did you just fall asleep right with the rest of us?"

"Uh, fell asleep," Ryan replies, honest. He makes a mental note to ask Sandy whether he liked literature before, 'cause right now, he certainly isn't enjoying it.

"Good, you pass the test," Matt says generously. His eyes catch something over Ryan's head. "Hey, guys, over here. Another back row sleeper. Flaubert has a lot to answer for."

Ryan raises his eyes in time to see two other students approaching.

"Steve," a blond guy says, sitting down and starting to gulp down his food under the disapproving eyes of the second addition—as redhead girl, who raises an eyebrow at Matt.

"No one likes Flaubert," she says. She turns to Ryan, gives him the once over, nods once and says, "I'm Julia, by the way. Nice to meet you."

He nods back politely, wondering how long it will take them to start grilling him.

He doesn't have long to wait.

"So, you like our school?" Matt asks.

"Sure."

There's an expectant silence, which he uses to sip his coke.

Julia snorts. "A man of few words, I see."

Ryan opens his mouth to protest, but realizes she's probably right, and shrugs.

Matt starts laughing. "I knew I'd like you."

Steve stops long enough to throw in, "Yeah. You and Julia do the talking, Ryan and I will act the part of the strong, silent types. Works for everyone."

"You're not the silent type, you're just too busy eating to waste time talking," Julia retorts. "That's different."

Ryan doesn't speak up, instead watching the other three bicker and tease each other. When he chuckles at one of Matt's childish insults, Julia gives a triumphant smile, so quick that Ryan wonders if he imagined it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Surprisingly, it isn't Matt or Julia who get the whole story out of him.

For reasons Ryan can't start to guess, the three friends have been keen on inviting him into their group. They don't push him to talk, they seem content to accept his one-word answers and his shrugs as elaborate replies, and they take his opinions in stride whenever he ventures to offer one.

He doesn't see a lot of them outside of classes, but he sometimes follows them when they decide to go to the movies, or to the nearest pizzeria. Ryan learns very soon that Steve is the one who helped Matt to carry him inside when he passed out that day, and he's pretty sure that they never really talked about the specifics with Julia, which Ryan appreciates.

They don't gang up on him to give him the third degree.

Instead, they take turns asking questions, backing off as soon as Ryan sends a "Leave me the hell alone" signal—that is usually just a change of subject.

First, it's Matt who asks him where he comes from. Ryan looks away and asks Steve if he understood anything in the last chemistry class.

Two weeks later, Julia asks him the same question. Ryan looks down and mumbles, "Fresno. Chino. Newport." He gets up and leaves them staring dumbfounded at him, feeling stupid. They're asking the most harmless questions, and he always reacts as if he had to protect his privacy with his life.

And what's worse, they don't even seem to hold it against him.

But damn it, the next time one of them asks, he'll suck it up and answer the question, instead of fleeing like a coward.

So, shortly after the Christmas break, when Steve and Ryan go back to Steve's house to work on an assignment, Ryan steels himself for what is sure to come.

Sure enough, it only takes fifteen minutes for Steve to launch another offensive.

"So."

Ryan shakes his head, torn between amusement and annoyance.

"Go ahead," he says. "Ask. I know it's your turn."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "Wow, I think this is the longest sentence I've heard you say all day."

Ryan leans back on his chair, his eyes trained on the Coldplay poster hanging over the bed.

"Okay," Steve says. "What's your story, oh mysterious one?"

"People took me in a little over a year ago, and a few months later, their real son and I went to a party in LA with some friends. On the way back, we got hit by another car. The girls got away with scratches, the Cohens' son died on the scene, and I got a bad head injury. I don't remember anything from my life before the accident happened."

Ryan takes a deep breath, marveling at the fact that he just managed to sum up the most difficult year of his life in four sentences.

Steve gapes at him for a short while. "Yeah, okay. Hm…"

"Pretty much," Ryan says.

"That's why you got that headache," Steve says, the pieces slowly falling into place. "It wasn't just taking a few punches, it was because of the…" He trails off, staring at Ryan. "And is that also why you never talk about the people you live with?"

Ryan shrugs, bends down to pick up a book in his backpack. "There isn't much to say. They're nice. I like them."

He gestures to the notes spread out on Steve's desk. "Let's finish this, okay?"

Steve nods, composing himself.

"Feel free to tell the others," Ryan says, opening his book.

They don't talk about anything but their homework after that.

* * *

TBC 


	7. Chapter 6

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

**Chapter Six**

When he first left the hospital, back in Newport, Ryan told himself that he'd never get used to the amnesia, that he'd never get used to not remembering his past, the Cohens, his family, and even Seth.

"People adapt," one of the doctors told him. "Even if your memories don't come back, things will grow familiar again. You won't always feel like you do now."

Ryan was sure, then, that the man was full of crap and too enamored of his own voice to realize that Ryan didn't believe a word of what he was saying.

How could anyone ever get used to feeling like this?

How could the Cohens ever become his family?

Of course, eventually, things changed.

It has been months, and it turns out that maybe that doctor was right after all.

Sure, Ryan still feels slightly disappointed when he wakes up in the morning and his memories are still… gone. Yet, for the most part, he has grown used to his life here.

At some point, he stopped seeing the Cohens as strangers and they have now become a comforting presence.

At some point, Ryan has started to like the way Sandy grins and clasps his shoulder when he's proud of him, and the way Kirsten smiles and rolls her eyes when Ryan argues for an extension of his curfew. The way they both manage to spare time for Ryan and be kind to him after the devastating loss they suffered is still baffling, but it makes Ryan feel safe and loved, and he wonders how he could ever consider them strangers.

The Cohens feel more like family than just generous strangers who took him in.

It must have been a gradual process, because Ryan can't remember when it happened. He only realizes it _has_ happened when Sandy comes home early one evening, looks at Ryan with a sober face and says, "Your mother called me this morning."

For a heart-stopping moment, Ryan is scared that she wants him back, that he's going to lose his new life, his friends, and worse, the Cohens.

A few months ago, he would have given almost anything to hear that news.

Now, he just thinks that he should have been more careful what he wished for.

"She wants to talk to you," Sandy adds. "I gave her our number. She'll call you later tonight."

"Where was she?" Ryan asks, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Now is not the time to ask the thousand questions that fill his mind.

_Why did it take her so long?_

_Why now?_

_Will she want me to leave here?_

_Will I have to if she does?_

Sandy's voice snaps him back to the present. "Reno. She says she only learned about the accident when she moved back to Chino a few days ago. She spoke to Trey."

Ryan nods, stiffly gets to his feet and gestures to the stairs. "I'll be…" He trails off and hurries out of the room, under the concerned glance of Sandy.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It turns out Ryan was wrong to be worried about Dawn asking him to come live with her. She doesn't even allude to it, just asks him repeatedly if he really doesn't remember her, and what the people he lives with have told him about her, and really, doesn't he remember her at all? She starts crying when he snaps, "No, I really, really don't remember anything."

"I'm sorry," she wails. She starts babbling incoherently about how her life has been difficult for the last few months, making Ryan wonder if she's drunk, or high, or both.

She sounds frantic, scared and plaintive all at the same time—so different from Kirsten that Ryan doesn't know what to make of it, how to react to her.

Then, there's a male voice in the background, and she says, "I'll call you back later, baby."

She hangs up before he can even say goodbye, leaving him feeling empty and depressed.

He doesn't want to leave the Cohens, but he can't help being hurt that his mother didn't even ask if he wanted to come back live with her.

Shouldn't she at least want him to?

When Kirsten peeks inside his room, asking him how he's doing, he smiles bravely, suddenly ashamed. The Cohens may not be related to him, but they're still the closest thing he has to a family. He doesn't want to lose that.

He just wishes his mother had at least told him she misses him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dawn takes to calling him about once a week.

Usually, she's either drunk or screaming, in which case Ryan closes his eyes and weathers the storm until she stops talking and hangs up on him, or she's sober and she makes small-talk to avoid answering Ryan's questions about his past or her life.

Today falls under the latter category. In ten minutes, they have gone from talking about the friends he has made to the classes he's taking—"you're definitely smarter than I ever was, kid"—and to whether or not he's going to join the soccer team.

"The number of times you've come back from a soccer game with bruises on your face," Dawn says, chuckling. "Trey always said you were a tough little son of a bitch."

"Did we play often?" Ryan asks, trying not to sound too eager. Talking with Dawn is very much like coaxing a wild animal out of its hiding place. If he doesn't choose his words carefully, if he sounds too impatient, too needy, if he insists too much, she snaps into defensive mode.

"How would I know?" Dawn shoots back, her tone growing colder. "You were always going off with him, and never telling me where you went."

Just like that, the window of opportunity snaps shut.

"I need to go," Dawn says after a tense silence. "I'll try to call again soon."

"Wait—" Ryan starts to say, but the dial tone is his only reply.

Ryan hangs his head, defeated.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Matt and the others have stopped asking him questions. They know the bare facts and have dealt with the fact that their friend isn't going to magically get his memories back overnight, so they moved on.

Whenever they start talking about their childhood, Ryan wishes he had something to contribute. The stories the Cohens tell him about his time with them are not enough to fill the void, and hearsay isn't the same as living things, so he has to settle for listening.

Whenever they start talking about their parents, Ryan wonders whose family he should talk about. The Cohens, whom he's starting to know? His biological family, who's so distant and out of reach?

"The Cohens seem very nice," Julia tells him once when they're alone—Matt and Steve went to a basketball game but Julia hates games and Ryan didn't feel like going out, so they're vegging out on the couch in Julia's house, trying not to fall asleep in front of the _Two Towers_ movie.

"They are."

"And your mom…"

Ryan shrugs. There have been five phone calls so far, and Ryan has learned a lot about his mother. She's unstable, and a little scary, and it hurts to speak to her. He wants to help her and doesn't know how, and more than anything, he wishes she'd tell him that she loves him, that she misses him, even once. Instead he has to make do with small talk and with Dawn's tendency of constantly avoiding anything remotely approaching a meaningful conversation.

Julia studies a moment. "You're going all silent on me again. It really bugs you, doesn't it?" Her voice is nice, belaying more concern than curiosity, and Ryan can't be angry at her for being worried.

"Of course it bugs me." Hearing his mother has made him start wondering again. The Cohens have talked about his rough past without giving him details, claiming they didn't know much, but the few contacts he has had with his mother have given him… disturbing clues about what life might have been like in Chino.

Why does his mother hang up every time her boyfriend comes home? Is he violent? Does he hit her?

Did any of his mother's boyfriends hit Ryan or Trey? Is that why Trey refused to say anything about Chino?

Just how rough is rough?

And is there any way he can get these answers?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At the beginning, when the Cohens were still living in Newport, Ryan spent most of his time trying to imagine what his home life had been like. In his mind, he'd picture a room filled with clothes, posters on the wall, maybe some toys or books. The room wasn't as well-furnished as the one he occupied at the Cohens, the wallpaper was a little faded, the paint a little cracked, but it was clean and sunny.

He imagined his mother complaining about lack of money, and trying to cling to a job.

He imagined his brother teasing him, playfully punching his arm.

Other times, he imagined his brother teaching him how to drive, how to smoke, talking about girls, asking about Ryan's life.

His mother and her boyfriend fighting in the kitchen.

His mother taking care of him when he was sick.

His mother ignoring him when he was sick.

Nothing felt right.

Nothing felt real.

Then, he had met Trey, had seen how edgy, how dangerous his brother was, and he had stopped playing the guessing game.

He was never going to win; he was never going to guess what their lives had been like.

Now that he's in semi-regular contact with his mother, he knows he was right.

He'd never have thought his mother was so… desperate.

He'd never have thought she could make him feel so empty, so hurt, only by talking to him.

Everything aches when she calls him, as if someone has taken something vital to him and is refusing to give it back.

Having talked to her and Trey, Ryan is starting to understand why the Cohens were reluctant to tell him about his past, why they claim they don't know much.

What he doesn't understand is why he _still_ wants to know more. He wants to know how things got to what they are now, wants to know what the hell happened to them to make them all so screwed up.

So, he decides that it's time to stop asking questions, and start looking for the answers himself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Even though Ryan has a plan to learn more, he hesitates several weeks before actually executing it.

The plan is simple. Unfortunately, it doesn't work too well—or rather, it does, but the results aren't the ones he was hoping for.

Ryan slips into Sandy's office while the Cohens are both out. After all, he reasons, if Social Services are involved in his life, there must be papers about him somewhere, maybe even papers documenting his life in Chino.

He rummages through Sandy's drawers and tells his guilty conscience to shut the hell up and let him work. He feels like a thief, but damn it, he wants to know.

Every time he looks into another drawer, he must remind himself that he needs answers and that it's the only way.

He reaches the bottom drawer without having found anything. When he opens it, he finds pictures of Seth—Seth on his boat, Seth in the pool, Seth in formal wear. A picture of Sandy, smiling, a surfboard under the arm. A picture of Seth and Ryan engrossed in a play station game. A picture of Kirsten smiling.

Ryan looks at the pictures for a while before setting them aside and reaching in to remove the next thing—a birth certificate. Seth's birth certificate.

Ryan wonders how much time Sandy spends in this room, looking at these old pictures, thinking about everything he has lost. He almost stops there. This is private, and he shouldn't be looking through Sandy's things.

Then, he sees a file under the certificate and his heart misses a few beats when he spots his name on the cover.

He picks up the file and hesitates for a long while, staring at the cover, afraid of what he'll find inside.

It turns out that he doesn't find much.

There's an arrest report as well as a mug shot that makes him cringe—he looks so young, so scared despite the defiant air. He doesn't like to think about what Sandy thought about him the first time they met.

There are a few reports from a school in Chino, documenting his record of truancy and the three times he was suspended for fighting.

A hospital report from when he was admitted to the ER with a broken arm, caused by a bike accident.

A police report for disturbance at his home—obviously, nothing came out of it.

He closes the file, feeling stupid.

He should have known.

The Cohens have told him repeatedly that they don't know much about his past, and enough time has passed that he knows they wouldn't lie about that. If there had been something in his file, they would have told him about it.

"Ryan?"

Sandy's voice startles him so badly that he drops the file and hits his head on the desk when he stands up.

"Sorry," he says, looking at his feet—anything to avoid having to meet Sandy's eyes.

Sandy sighs. "I should have known." He crouches to gather the file and the pictures.

"I'm sorry", Ryan repeats. "I just…"

Sandy puts everything back in the drawer and slams it shut, the noise making Ryan jump slightly.

"You just wanted answers, I know."

Ryan feels a blush creep up his cheeks.

"Did you find them?" Sandy asks, his nice tone making Ryan feel even more guilty, if that was possible.

"No," he says, almost choking on the word. "There's nothing in there."

"I know."

_Why isn't there anything in that file?_

_The way Trey and my mother behave, the way you look sad every fucking time I ask questions, it had to be worse than a bike accident and a few fights at school, Sandy. So why isn't there anything in there?_

"Do you know something else? Besides what's in there?" _Because damn it, Sandy, there has to be more._

Sandy sits on the ground, and gestures for Ryan to come join him. Ryan hesitates briefly before sitting cross-legged next to Sandy.

When Sandy speaks again, his voice is even, almost clinical. "Not really. I know your family was poor, I know your mother is an alcoholic, I know your brother has an impressive record, I know you had some problems with your temper, I know you and Trey stole a car and got caught."

He pauses to look at Ryan who tries to look unaffected.

"Are you sure you want me to go on?"

Ryan nods.

"Fine. When we were still hoping things would work out with your mother, she came to the house. We had diner. She said something about her boyfriend dealing drugs and hitting her. And you."

Ryan nods dumbly. That much, he pretty much expected. It does explain why his mother is always quick to leave the phone whenever her boyfriend enters the room.

"I don't know if he was the only one who had done that."

"But you doubt it," Ryan states flatly.

Sandy closes his eyes for a moment. "Yes. I doubt it."

There's a tense silence.

"What else?" Ryan asks.

Sandy turns to face him. "Nothing, Ryan. We're not hiding anything from you. You once said that your memories of holidays consisted of your mother getting drunk and you getting your ass kicked, and that's about the extent of what you told us about your life." He smiles sadly. "We didn't want to push you to talk. We wanted to wait until you were comfortable enough to come to us." The smile fades as he finishes, "We never reached that point."

"I'm sorry," Ryan offers. "I shouldn't have looked into your things."

"No, you shouldn't have." Sandy pats his shoulder. "But I understand why you did. I wish I could answer your questions, but I can't. I don't know if anyone can."

Ryan nods, thinking that he knows of two people who actually can.

Wondering if he should turn to them for answers.

Wondering why the hell he didn't tell the Cohens anything, or the people who filed the few reports that are in his file.

Wondering what he'd find if he pushed his brother and his mother to talk.

* * *

TBC 


	8. Chapter 7

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Ryan steps off the bus, squinting in the sunshine, and tries to breathe in the stifling heat after the hours spent in an air conditioned environment. The sun beats down relentlessly on the people, the cars, the ground, making Ryan's skin burn. He grimaces as sweat prickles down his neck, irritating the skin.

Glancing around, he fights the urge to turn tail and take the next bus back up North.

What the hell is he doing here?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Finding out Dawn's address was easy enough.

Convincing his friends to help him was more complicated—they all had very strong, perfectly logical arguments against the idea, and it was even more difficult to argue about it when Ryan totally agreed with what they were saying.

Lying to the Cohens was hell.

"Why don't you just tell them?" Julia asked him again yesterday, in a last-minute attempt to change his mind.

"Because they'd refuse." Ryan had long ago lost track of the number of times he had said that. "Or they'd want to come with me."

And this… this is something he needs to do on his own.

He needs to understand.

He needs answers.

He needs to look his mother in the eyes, and maybe then he'll understand why she never asked him to come live with her.

He needs…

He needs to get moving, because the bus driver is starting to look at him suspiciously.

He heads to the bus station's exit, trying to get his bearings. Julia found a motel for him when she figured that she wouldn't be able to convince him to give up on his "dim-witted, half-assed plan."

"It's not the one closest to the bus station, but it doesn't look like a dump, so…" she told him, looking worried and frustrated with him—the way she usually does when she's dealing with him, Matt and Steve.

Now, all Ryan has to do is find that motel, sleep for a few hours, go visit his brother in jail and go see his mother.

Piece of cake.

Ryan leaves the station behind him and heads to the motel, trying to look like he knows exactly what he's doing, like he belongs here.

Trying to hide the fact that there's a ball of nervousness in the pit of his stomach that has been there since he left the house more than eight hours ago.

He had never realized before how much he has come to depend on the Cohens. His whole support system is now four hundred miles away from him, and he wonders if this was how his past self felt all the time—lost and alone in the world, with nothing and no one to fall back on if things got tough.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan hadn't found Chino familiar the one time he came here with Sandy.

It doesn't look any more familiar this time around.

It doesn't look much better than it did then either—the same gray buildings with graffiti on the walls; the same beat-down cars and beat-down houses.

It's depressing to look at, yet as he walks along a park, Ryan can see kids chasing each others, playing baseball, running around and laughing.

_Was I like that?_ he wonders. _Did Trey and I ever_…

He stops that train of thought before it can fully leave the station.

Now is not the time. He'll be able to ask Trey tomorrow, but for now, he needs to focus on the task at hand.

Find motel.

Shower.

Eat something.

Shower again.

He finally reaches the motel half an hour after leaving the station. He's sweaty and dirty, his clothes sticking to his skin and his hair sticking to his face. He catches a glimpse of himself in the window of a car and sighs.

He should have taken a cab.

It would have cost more, and he didn't take much with him in fear of awakening the Cohens' suspicions, but maybe that way, he wouldn't be such a mess.

At least the motel doesn't look too much like a death trap and Ryan sends wordless thanks to Julia.

"I don't want any trouble here, kid," the manager tells him, eyeing Ryan's money suspiciously before quickly making it disappear into the register.

"No, sir," Ryan replies, eyes lowered, trying to look as un-threatening as possible.

He looks like he has spent the afternoon running in the sun, and maybe the man is thinking he's hiding from the cops, or from his family.

The man chuckles. "Sir, uh?" He grunts and throws a key at Ryan. "Room 4. No room service."

Well, apparently, the man doesn't care who Ryan's hiding from, as long as he gets paid.

Ryan nods and beats a hasty retreat, eager to find the room and take the longest shower in human history.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

An hour later, he's lying in the bed, fully dressed in blessedly fresh clothes—the motel may not be a death trap, but no way is he getting under _these_ covers, thank you very much.

He hopes things went according to plan and the Cohens still don't know he ran away (or, well, took a small leave of absence for an extended weekend).

It didn't take much convincing to get the Cohens to agree to let him spend the weekend with Matt and his family, in a cabin they own in the woods. It was the perfect cover story—he could even tell them that he would be unable to use his cell phone, blaming it on the fact that there was no service so far out of town.

Ryan feels horribly guilty telling them such blatant lies but he needs to do this, and doesn't want either of them here with him.

Sure, they'd be supportive, and caring, and they would stand by his side. But Ryan has suspicions about what he's going to find, and he doesn't want anyone around to witness it if he falls apart, if he's disappointed or hurt.

If what he fears comes true.

So, with his friends' reluctant help, he constructed a careful web of lies and fed it to the Cohens—a nice cover story that doesn't have a chance of holding up to scrutiny. It doesn't matter. All he needs is two days in Chino, then he can go back to San Francisco and get grounded for the rest of his life, because even if the Cohens miraculously don't learn about this on their own, Ryan can't imagine hiding it from them.

Still, he needs to turn this page.

Talking to his mother on the phone isn't enough; she can hang up on him too easily that way. He needs to see her in person.

He needs to see Trey and, this time, he won't take "You're better off not knowing," for an answer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Entering the prison and asking to see his brother is unpleasant.

Being patted down for weapons is worse.

Sitting in the sun, waiting for his brother to come, under the eyes of the other visitors and the other inmates, makes his stomach clench painfully.

It could have been him living here.

And, of course, he'd still have his memories if he had stayed in Juvie, but Ryan doesn't think he would have considered that a fair trade off.

Trey glowers at him as he sits down, asks, "Are you all right?" and when Ryan nods hesitantly, he snaps, "Then why the hell are you here?"

"I just wanted to…" Ryan trails off, gestures at the fading bruises on his brother's face. "How about you? Are you all right?"

Trey stares at him. "You're still…" He taps his temple gently, the meaning clear.

"I'm still amnesic, yes." Ryan clenches his fists, surprised at how easily his brother just managed to offend him. "I'm not _stupid_, Trey."

_Except for the fact that I am, just not the way you're implying._

Trey looks around, probably checking that no one is listening to them. "Right. So, why did you come?"

"I want to go see…" He bites his lip, unsure how to go on. What did they call their mother? She doesn't sound like the "Mom" kind, and saying "our mother" would have sounded weird.

"Please tell me you're not planning to go see Dawn."

While the use of the first name surprises Ryan, he forces himself not to react.

"I just want to talk to her."

Trey shakes his head, snarling. "Bad idea, kid. She's still with AJ, and even if she wasn't… She's using again." His fingers are tapping on the table, he looks ready to flight, and Ryan wonders again just how bad things were at their home and why there's no evidence of anything. "You may not remember how that makes her, but trust me on this, bro. In this case, not knowing is a fucking blessing."

The words are out of his mouth before he realizes he has spoken them. "I doubt it."

"For fuck's sake, Ryan!" Trey stands up and starts pacing. He stops and raises a hand in surrender when a guard approaches him. "Sorry," he mumbles, and sits back down.

Ryan breathes a sigh of relief. For a moment, he feared that Trey would ask the guard to take him away, just to avoid answering his questions.

Trey waits until the guard is out of earshot before talking again. "I told you last time—"

"I know what you told me last time," Ryan snaps, trying to keep his voice below yelling level. "It's not enough."

"Damn, bro, can't you take my word for it?"

"No, I can't! It can't be worse than what I'm imagining." Except he's starting to doubt that, and his voice doesn't sound nearly as assured as he wants it to.

Trey growls softly. "What do you want me to tell you? You want to know about our father and how he used to hit me to make you cry? Or about Dawn, who never went a week without getting drunk and apologizing over and over again. And then drinking some more. Or about these boyfriends of hers? How about the time one of these assholes twisted your arm behind your back until it broke? Biking accident, my ass."

There's a disturbing light in Trey's eyes, and Ryan resists the urge to look away.

"How about when one of them put out his cigarette on your arm?" Trey adds viciously.

"What about you?" Ryan asks softy.

Trey barks a sharp laugh. "Me? I split when I was sixteen. And waited for you to come to your senses and do the same. But no, of course you had to stay there and watch Dawn sink."

"No, I mean…" _There must have been good times, right_? _We must have acted like brothers, right_? _We must have been a family at some point. Right?_

The words catch in his throat before he can utter the first one.

Trey looks at him with something akin to pity. "Funny. I've always hoped I'd forget about all that stuff. So did you, by the way. But you did, and it doesn't look like it's a walk in the park now that you have."

Ryan almost laughs. "I just… I'm tired of wondering."

Trey shrugs. "I can't tell you about every single thing that happened every single day," he points out. "We don't have that much time."

Ryan swallows past the lump that's starting to form in his throat. "I know."

Trey sighs and clasps his hands in front of him.

"Life in Fresno sucked," Trey says. He doesn't look angry or tense anymore. Just tired. "Our father… well, the world is a better place now that he's in jail."

Ryan keeps his face blank and nods.

"Life in Chino was better for a while. Dawn had even stopped drinking. Then she started again. And stopped. And started again. She must be on her tenth relapse by now. She took drugs, drank, slept with losers who usually liked to use us as punching bags. One or two were nice, but those ones never stayed long."

Trey looks at Ryan with a smirk.

"We never had any money, so we both stole stuff."

The smirk widens when Ryan feels the blush creep up his cheeks, which was probably what Trey intended all along.

"When we grew up, we started fighting back, and things got worse. I left. You didn't."

He cracks his knuckles.

"I guess the best thing that ever happened to you was getting arrested with me," Trey finishes. "Ending up with that lawyer guy…" Then, a thought seems to occur to him. "They treat you well, right?" he asks, frowning. "These people? Nothing happened that…"

He fumbles for words and Ryan rushes to say, "Yeah, they're nice. Really nice."

"Then why?"

The answer to that one hasn't changed and too bad if it makes him sound like a broken record.

_I need to know before I can move on, Trey. If I don't know for sure, I'll never stop wondering._

_I need to know how bad it was, and if it was as bad as what you just said. I need to know why it went on for years and no one did anything, and why I didn't say anything._

A guard walks to them, saving Ryan from having to reply. "Time's up."

Trey and Ryan stand awkwardly.

"Don't go there," Trey says.

"I have to."

Trey nods, resigned. "Take care of yourself." He eyes the guard, who sighs and looks away. Smiling, he takes Ryan's shoulder and pulls him into a quick hug. "Be careful," he says gruffly before releasing Ryan and walking away.

He never turns back as the guard leads him back inside.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It takes three hours walking aimlessly in the streets and two hours spent making sure his mother is alone, for Ryan to gather his courage and ring the bell.

Despite the picture he saw, the phone calls and Trey's warning, Ryan is still taken by surprise when Dawn swings the door open.

He didn't expect her to look so old.

There are circles under her eyes, a bruise on her cheekbone and a bottle in her hand.

She blinks at him for a while before smiling tearfully. "Oh, my baby," she says, throwing her arms around him and clinging to him. "I'm so happy you're here."

It doesn't seem to sink in that Ryan's more than six hours away from his home, that they haven't seen each other in well over a year, and that he looks exhausted.

Ryan is starting to have second thoughts about entering this house, but he didn't go through all that just to turn away now.

So he allows her to lead him into the house, and he looks curiously around.

The first thing he notices is the boots next to the couch and the man's jacket on the chair. Trey's warnings echo in his mind, but Ryan ignores them. He knew before coming that she was living with a guy. The guy isn't around for now; Ryan spotted him driving away an hour earlier.

"Hey, Mom," he says, his first words since he entered the house.

She collapses on the couch and pats the cushion next to her, so he sits down carefully. He doesn't dare leaning back, doesn't dare get too comfortable.

He tries to tell himself that it's not fear, that it's not everyone's warnings making him wary of his old life.

He's just nervous around his mother, and since he doesn't remember her, who could blame him, right?

"How are you, baby?" she asks.

"I'm fine." He studies her, trying to look for a clue as to what she's thinking. He doesn't find any—she doesn't even seem to be in the room with him.

"Mom?" he asks.

"Oh, baby, I've missed you," she says, reaching over to touch his cheek. Her movement is too quick and she ends up smacking him slightly.

Her eyes fill up immediately. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he says, resisting the hysterical urge to start laughing. "You didn't mean it. I just came to… I wanted to talk."

Dawn looks at the bottle she's still clenching in her hands. "I know, honey. I've been a bad mother, but I'll try to do better."

Ryan realizes with a sinking feeling that his first impression was true. She doesn't realize he's here with her when he should be with the Cohens, hundreds of miles away.

She's wasted and in no shape to talk, that much is obvious, but perhaps he can come back tomorrow? Perhaps she'll be more coherent then? Perhaps they'll be able to have a true discussion—even if she can't tell him about the past (and that looks increasingly likely), he just wants to talk to her, get to know her a little. He knows a lot more about Sandy and Kirsten than he does about his mother.

"Maybe I can come back," he says softly, hoping she understands what he's saying. "Maybe tomorrow?"

She nods absently, but the reply comes from behind Ryan. "Or maybe you can leave and not come back."

Ryan jumps up off the couch and turns to face the man who spoke.

The disturbingly large man who spoke.

Who's clenching his fists.

Who's smirking at him, and not in a semi-affectionate way, the way Trey did.

There's nothing but contempt on that man's face and Ryan's heart starts to beat faster.

Fuck.

He definitely should have listened to Trey.

And his friends.

And the Cohens.

And his instincts.

The man looks at him and snorts. "She threw you out, kid, what part of that didn't you get?"

Ryan swallows and tries to glare at the man.

"She's my mother," he says. "I still have a right to come see her."

Okay, maybe not his smartest move ever, but damn it, she _is_ his mother and Ryan doesn't put up well with being bullied. He learned that much about himself when that kid tried to steal his backpack.

The man doesn't laugh, reply, grunt or anything of the sort. He just reaches out, grabs Ryan's arm, his fingers digging deep into the flesh, and drags him to the door.

Ryan follows, grimacing when he trips and the man's grip tightens around his arm even more.

"I did it once," the man says conversationally. "I can do it again."

Ryan struggles and stomps his foot on the man's, as hard as he can.

And wow, is he full of brilliant ideas today or what?

If he survives this, he'll never stand up to anyone who tries to attack him ever again.

Still, it seems to work. The man lets go, probably more out of surprise than pain.

Ryan turns to his mother, who has been staring at them both with wide eyes. He doesn't doubt there'll be payback for what he just did; he just wants to talk to her again.

"Mom, I'll call you, okay?" he says.

"I don't know," she mutters. "AJ's going to be mad if you do that."

Ryan doesn't have time to answer.

He doesn't even have time to feel hurt at the fact that she's submitting to that... man.

AJ grabs him again and slams him into the wall.

Ryan's ears ring and he falls to his knees, the breath knocked out of him, his whole body still rocking with the force of the impact.

He feels AJ haul him to his feet by the collar of his shirt and then, he's on the ground again, the area around his left eye feeling like it has been hit with a hammer.

He feels AJ's breath on his ear. "Leave. I won't tell you again."

Ryan nods, trying to push himself off the floor.

A hard kick to his side makes him fall again, curling up on himself, gasping for air.

He opens teary eyes to see AJ looming over him, and closes them again.

Waiting.

After a few moments, when it seems like no other blows are coming, Ryan painfully gets to his feet. He prods his eye carefully, wincing at the tenderness.

He doesn't even want to think about the bruise he feels forming on his side.

He looks at his mother, who's crying silently but hasn't moved from the couch while he was getting his ass kicked.

Who hasn't even said anything.

"I'm sorry, baby," she sobs.

Ryan nods once, a bad taste in his mouth.

He understands now what Trey tried to tell him.

Dawn is still whining. "I just don't…"

She trails off and the small part of Ryan's brain that's still capable of analyzing the situation recognizes that it's well-put.

Dawn just doesn't, that much is pretty clear.

"Okay," he says, keeping the hurt out of his voice. Men like AJ feed off other people's hurt, and fuck if Ryan's going to give him that satisfaction. Bad enough that Ryan allowed him to wipe the floor with him.

AJ's watching, arms crossed over his chest, smiling.

"Don't come back, kid," he says as Ryan makes his way to the door.

Ryan never planned to.

He may have forgotten what life taught him before the accident, but he's a quick student now.

* * *

TBC 


	9. Chapter 8

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Ryan spends the rest of the day holed up in his room, curtains closed, willing away the rest of the world.

After being knocked into a wall, he expected a bad headache. To his surprise, the pain remains manageable, even though he doesn't feel up to packing and heading back to San Francisco yet.

Still, maybe the fact that he didn't develop a migraine is a good sign. Maybe it means that the worst side effects of the accident are fading away. Well, all except for the big one, but now that he has met his mother and AJ, Ryan can understand Trey's point of view on amnesia a little better.

The jury is still out on whether or not he agrees with it.

Still, no headache is good. Probably the one good thing that happened today.

Well, that and the fact that he got his answers.

Too bad these answers were so painful to get.

Too bad he didn't believe Trey's warnings.

Too bad he didn't ask the Cohens to come with him.

Thinking about the Cohens makes him want to hide under the covers in shame.

He had never planned on lying to them about his little adventure in Southern California, but he had hoped to gloss over some of the details if things went wrong. Unfortunately, his face will render all lies futile. The way his eye is swelling, he'd have to stay in Chino for at least a week before it fades enough to go unnoticed.

Not gonna happen.

And fuck, but isn't that the way his luck goes?

There's no way the Cohens aren't going to see what happened, and the Technicolor proof he's carrying on his face will paint a very good picture for them.

Sighing, Ryan rolls over in the bed, wincing when the movement puts pressure on his side. He still hasn't checked what it looks like.

It feels bad enough.

In fact, there isn't really any part of him that doesn't ache right now—his arm, his back, his side, his head, all protest every time he moves.

He screwed up.

He knew he was screwing up as soon as he stepped on that bus, as soon as he made the decision to come, even, and there's no way he can avoid the Cohens finding out the full extent of what went down here.

Just.

Fucking.

Great.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sandy's timing is perfect.

Ryan's phone starts to ring just as he steps out of the bus in San Francisco.

"Are you okay?" Sandy asks first.

Ryan doesn't think his "yes" is very convincing.

Too bad.

It's the best he can manage.

Sandy heaves a deep sigh, leading Ryan to wonder whether the man is angry, worried, or both. "Where are you?"

"At the bus station."

"I'll be here in twenty minutes. Sit tight."

Sandy hangs up before Ryan can utter an apology, an explanation, or anything at all. For lack of anything else to do, he sits, head down, backpack between his feet, and waits for Sandy.

He hurts all over, he hasn't slept a wink since that disastrous little scene in Dawn's house, and he looks like he has been through a war.

Hell, he _feels_ like he has been through a war.

Ryan has carefully avoided thinking about the Cohens' reaction during the trip back, but Sandy is on his way, and Ryan is torn between the need to feel Sandy's arms around him, and the urge to hide from him until he feels and looks human again.

He doesn't want Sandy to see him like this.

He doesn't want Sandy to think about all the other times Ryan must have looked this battered in the past.

He doesn't want anyone to pity him or be compassionate.

He doesn't want anyone to reach out to him, touch him, comfort him.

He doesn't want anyone to tell him things will be all right.

He's terrified that no one will tell him that things will be all right.

He doesn't want anything but to forget about what happened, pretend it didn't happen, and now he understands why he never told anyone before.

Now he understand why there's nothing in the file, why Trey looks like he's at the end of his rope.

Now he understands why he never told the Cohens about his past when he still could.

Maybe he even understands why he went with his brother to steal a car, why he did something so monumentally stupid.

When he remembers Dawn's tears and words, AJ slamming him into the wall, kicking him while he was down, he just wants to forget everything.

Or hit something.

Or scream.

Or lie and pretend it doesn't hurt, because if he can pretend he's doing well, if he can pretend nothing that happened in Chino affects him, maybe that'll mean that that scumbag hasn't won.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Half an hour has passed when Sandy finally arrives.

Ryan is still looking at the ground and doesn't look up when he sees a pair of legs appear at the edge of his sightline.

Sandy crouches in front of him, calling softly, "Kid?"

Ryan tries to brace himself for Sandy's reaction and looks up.

Sandy frowns and grimaces and sighs all at once. He puts a finger under Ryan's chin, making him raise his head a little higher.

"Who did that?" he asks calmly, like he already knows the answer.

Which, of course, he does.

"My mother's boyfriend," Ryan says, each word feeling like it's being torn from him, leaving a bleeding void behind.

Sandy releases Ryan, sits next to him. "Headache?"

Ryan shakes his head, eyes glued to a spot on the wall, just above a map of the town. Anything to avoid having to meet Sandy's eyes.

"How do you feel?" Sandy insists.

"Stupid." Ryan's voice cracks. "I'm sorry."

Sandy's voice sounds tired when he replies, "It's okay."

"No, it's not," Ryan snaps. And even if Dawn had acted like a mother, even if things had gone well in Chino, he'd still feel bad for running from the Cohens like that. "I'm… I didn't mean to…"

He closes his eyes, exhausted.

"What happened?" Sandy asks. And again, Ryan has the feeling that Sandy already knows, and just wants to hear Ryan say it.

"Her boyfriend was there. He kicked me out. And she…" His fists clenched on their own accord at the mention of AJ. He opens them and stares at his outstretched hands for a little while before finishing, "She just sat there." He's surprised at how sad his voice sounds.

Sandy pulls him close and Ryan tenses up when his hand comes to rest on his back—his side hurts more but his back is bruised from when he hit the wall, and Sandy's gentle hand makes him grit his teeth to avoid grimacing.

He masks his reaction and rests his head on Sandy's shoulder, amazed that the man is still offering comfort, after everything.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he breathes in deeply.

No matter how much he wants to lick his wounds in private and deal with all of this alone, it feels good to accept Sandy's help.

"Did you find the answers you were looking for?" Sandy asks at last, releasing him.

Ryan thinks about Trey, and Dawn crying, and AJ slapping him around. "No," he whispers. Because, really, how could things get so bad? Where did it all go wrong? Then, because he may still be as confused as before, but he at least understands himself a little better, he adds a hesitant, "Yes."

Sandy nods as though that makes sense. "Ready to go home?" He pats Ryan on the back, making him grimace.

Sandy starts frowning again. "Ryan?"

"I'm fine," he tries.

Not that he expects Sandy to believe that one.

Sandy stares at him for a beat then takes his arm and leads him to the nearest public restroom bathroom—which is thankfully deserted.

"Show me," he orders as soon as the door has closed.

Ryan feels his cheeks burn but lifts his T-shirt to allow Sandy to see his side.

Sandy swallows, clenches his jaw, and Ryan takes a look at himself in the mirror. The bruise is dark against the pale skin, looking more painful than it really is.

He lets his hand drop, his T-shirt hiding the bruise again.

Sandy approaches him carefully, almost like he'd get close to a frightened animal, and raises an eyebrow. Ryan nods, allowing Sandy to take a look at his back, lifting his sleeve to show him the finger marks AJ left on his biceps.

"I'll call Sam when we get home," Sandy says at last. His voice is carefully controlled, but Ryan can hear the fury beneath it.

He opens his mouth to protest.

Sandy beats him to it. "That's not a suggestion."

Recognizing the battle is lost, Ryan follows Sandy to the car, rests his head on the window and for the first time in over twenty-five hours, he falls asleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He spends the next day either sleeping or dozing off.

He barely regains consciousness when Sandy pulls up at the house and leads him inside, doesn't notice Kirsten until he feels her hands on his shoulders, guiding him upstairs.

He wakes up fully when the doctor starts prodding him, answers a few questions, then allows the quiet discussion the doctor has with the Cohens to lull him back to sleep.

He wakes up again when something cold is applied on his side.

"What?" he manages to mumble.

He vaguely hears Kirsten explain that the doctors gave them something to put on his bruises, to help with the swelling and the pain.

He can't muster the energy to ask anything else, or even to move enough to help Kirsten, so he just sinks back into oblivion.

When he eventually wakes up coherent enough to notice where he is, the sun is rising and Sandy is peeking in through the half-opened door.

"Kid?" he calls softly.

"Yeah."

Sandy tip-toes in the room, closes the door behind him. "How are you feeling?"

Ryan makes a mental inventory, decides that it could be worse and shrugs. "Okay."

Sure, every part of him feels sore, but the pain isn't so bad now.

Sandy looks understandably doubtful. "I mean, how do you really feel?" he clarifies.

"It kind of hurts." Just not as much as getting beat up in the first place, and certainly not as much as the memories of Dawn telling him that she didn't think it was a good idea for him to come back.

"Sam said it would take a few days." Sandy sits on the bed and clasps his hands on his thighs. "And while I think about it, you're never going to a friend's house in the woods ever again. Come to think of it, you're never going anywhere ever again. Consider yourself indefinitely grounded."

Ryan nods.

He'll probably find it harsh later on, but right this moment, he can live with that.

"How did you find out?" he asks, more out of curiosity than anything else.

Getting caught was inevitable, but he hopes that Matt didn't get into too much trouble.

"You had told us you'd come back into town around ten, and you'd call us then so we could come pick you up. We waited an hour after the time you were supposed to call, then we called Matt. He spilled very fast."

"You didn't?" Ryan isn't sure what he's asking, but Sandy understands anyway.

"No, I didn't call his parents. I probably should have, but he was very worried about you, and I think he has suffered enough. But I _will _have a long discussion with him."

Ryan opens his mouth, sees Sandy's resolved face and gives up.

He just hopes Matt will forgive him.

Sandy's obviously not done yet, though it takes him a long time to actually ask, "What did you think you were going to find out down there?"

Ryan swallows, at a loss for words. He knew that question was coming, knew Sandy would ask it eventually, and he still doesn't know what to say.

So, he goes with the truth.

"I wanted to know. I didn't understand…" _I didn't want to believe. Alcoholic mothers who abandon their kids, abusive boyfriends, jail, drugs… That only happens in movies, in books by Dickens. Not to normal people, not to… me. _"I thought, maybe…" _I thought maybe you were wrong. I thought there had been a mistake somewhere. I thought life in Chino couldn't have been so bad. I thought my own mother would love me and want me if she saw me._

_How fucking clueless can I be?_

He trails off without answering Sandy's question, miserable.

"I wish there was something I could do to make this easier for you," Sandy offers. "But there was nothing I could do last time, and there's nothing I can do now."

_You do make it easier_, Ryan wants to say.

_You help, and I'm sure you must have helped me before, even if I can't remember it._

_If you were to my past self even half of what you are to me now, you helped._

As usual, the words stay stuck in his throat.

Sandy gets up, leans down and ruffles Ryan's hair softly, quickly, and it's only when he reaches the door that Ryan finds it in him to call him back.

"Sandy?"

"Yeah."

Sandy's hand is on the door, and Ryan has to say this now, or he'll lose the courage, and who knows how long it'll be before he finds it again. So, he takes a deep breath and tries to keep his voice firm.

"You do help."

Sandy looks surprised for a moment, then he nods, smiling sadly.

"Thanks," Ryan adds.

"You're welcome, Ryan."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan goes back to school four days later.

The bruises are changing into some interesting and spectacular colors, but at least they've stopped hurting.

Unfortunately, Ryan's escapade has had more consequences than a few blows.

Kirsten looks about to cry every time she sees him; Sandy still looks furious—and Ryan's almost relieved that most of the anger isn't directed at him. It's not that he thinks Sandy would hurt him. It's just that he'd rather not take any chances, and if one little "disagreement" with AJ makes him feel this vulnerable, this jumpy, this untrusting, what kind of mess must he have been when he met Sandy for the first time?

When Julia sees him, she hugs him, then smacks him upside the head, then hugs him again. "This is so the last time I let you talk me into one of your stupid plans."

Matt sighs and says, "Your guardian is pretty cool. He didn't say anything to my parents."

Steve takes one look at him and asks him if he found what he was looking for, reminding Ryan of Sandy. "I guess," he says.

There's a tense silence, broken by a smiling Julia—her smile vaguely reminiscent of that of a shark moving in for the kill. "So, how long are you going to be grounded?"

"Sandy said I wasn't going anywhere ever again, but I think he was joking."

"For what it's worth, my money is on 'until graduation day,'" Julia teases.

Matt looks at Ryan thoughtfully. "I'm thinking until the day he leaves home to get into college."

Steve chuckles but doesn't say anything, prompting Ryan to ask, "Okay, out with it. What do you think?"

"Wedding day", he replies dead-pan. "If you're very lucky and they like the bride."

Shaking his head, Ryan walks away from them, jokingly complaining about their lack of support, allowing their easy banter to soothe him into some semblance of normalcy.

* * *

TBC 


	10. Chapter 9

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Dawn's phone call isn't really a surprise.

Somehow, Ryan had been sure that she would call him again, and apologize, and maybe explain why it was better to do as AJ says.

He hadn't been wrong.

Dawn cries, pleads, begs him to understand, promises she'll do better.

If he just gives her one more chance.

She'll stop using, she'll stop drinking, she has already dumped AJ.

Maybe he can come visit.

It would mean so much to her.

All she needs is another chance.

Just another chance; she promises not to screw up this time.

Not like all the other times.

She knows she has been a bad mother to him, but surely he can give her one last chance to make everything better.

Ryan feels sick.

How many times did he hear all that before he met the Cohens?

How many times did she promise?

How many times did she ask for one more chance?

How many more chances has he given her?

Did he feel then like he does now?

Untrusting, sure she won't keep her promises.

Wanting to believe her.

Craving her affection.

Resenting her.

Wanting nothing to do with her.

Wanting her to get better, wanting to see her again.

Wanting her to want him.

"Please, baby," she says.

He doesn't have anything to say and even if he could, there's no way he could talk right now.

Not when all he wants to do is hurl the phone at the wall.

Or cry.

It hurts so much every time he thinks about her, every time it dawns on him, yet again, that she didn't love him enough to stand up to AJ.

Did that wound ever heal for his past self?

From what the Cohens have told him, he doubts it.

Dawn is still crying, her sobs making her words indecipherable.

Just as Ryan is sure that he's going to start yelling, Kirsten enters his room.

He must look as awful as he feels because she walks to him and snatches the phone from his hand.

She doesn't even need to ask.

"Dawn," she says, her tone polite.

She listens for a while, and her voice is downright frosty when she speaks again. "Given what happened the last time he went to see you in Chino, I don't think it's such a good idea."

Ryan can hear Dawn's wails in the distance. Kirsten closes her eyes, frustrated. "No, Dawn. When you get some help, when you're better, when you're not a danger to Ryan anymore, then we'll see. Not before."

She hangs up.

"I'm sorry," Ryan says. "She called, and I couldn't…"

_I couldn't not take it, Kirsten. You must see that, right?_

"I'm not going to forbid you from talking to your mother, Ryan. I wish I could, but you're old enough to make that decision." She meets his eyes. "I just hope that you'll come to us if it gets to be too much."

_I don't want to stay in touch with Dawn._

_I don't want to lose contact with Dawn._

_Fuck._

_That's screwed up, even for me._

Kirsten sits at his desk, absently putting the phone down on top of his history book. She looks tired and small—the way she looked right after Ryan had awoken in the hospital. It had been a long time since he had seen her that way. _I did that,_ he thinks, a pang of guilt making him wince.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. He's not apologizing for speaking to Dawn this time and Kirsten seems to understand.

"I know." She tries to smile, but doesn't quite make it. "There's one thing I need to know."

Ryan swallows, his throat tight.

He knows what's coming.

He's only surprised it took so long.

At least Sandy got things out in the open immediately, asked his questions, accepted that Ryan couldn't really answer.

Kirsten hasn't really talked about Ryan's reasons for leaving, hasn't really talked to him at all, and Ryan is more worried than he wants to admit.

What if he lost her by going to see Dawn?

What if she can't forgive him for hurting her?

Her tone is remarkably even when she asks, "Why?"

Ryan's doesn't have an answer for that, short of, "Because I needed to know." Still he needs to try to answer her. He owes her that, at the very least.

"I needed to see for myself." He trusts Sandy and Kirsten. He always knew they weren't lying to him when they said they didn't know much, when they talked about what little they knew. But the fact is… "I'd never have believed it otherwise."

Kirsten isn't looking at him. Her eyes go from the windows to the books on the shelves until they settle on a picture on Ryan's desk—the Cohens, Seth and Ryan, at the only Christmas the four of them shared. He suddenly realizes that it has been weeks since she last talked about Seth in Ryan's presence, and that's yet another thing he feels guilty about. Her grief shouldn't have to take a backseat to his issues.

He had promised himself he'd help them to remember Seth, and somewhere along the line, he forgot that promise.

He forgot a lot of things in his quest for answers.

Like the fact that as much as this past year sucked for him, it has been so much worse for Kirsten and Sandy.

"So, the solution was lying to us, going to visit your brother in prison, coming back exhausted and covered in bruises?"

Ryan opens his mouth, closes it soundlessly. What can he say? He knew there were other options, they just didn't appeal to him.

Kirsten chuckles, taking him by surprise. "Oh, Ryan… You always do stuff like that. Always did. Telling us you're fine when you're everything but. Not wanting to be a bother, no matter how many times we tell you you're not. Rushing into these situations, not because you're stupid, but because you feel you need to do it." She rubs her eyes, still smiling. "We used to think it was because of your past, but now, I'm not so sure. Maybe it's just that you're a teenager, or that you're naturally stubborn. Sometimes, you're so much like the kid Sandy brought home."

Ryan looks at her, words long forgotten flowing back into his mind.

_I miss them both. Seth, and even Ryan. That man… he took them both from us._

"Ryan?"

He shakes himself. He had understood then, on some level, what Kirsten meant. He had also felt hurt, at least partly because she was echoing his thoughts.

Part of himself died in that car accident, leaving an empty shell behind.

"I overheard you one night," he tells her. "I didn't mean to listen, I just…"

She rolls her eyes and gestures for him to continue, patient.

"You said that that driver had taken both your kids from you."

She blanches, her voice a whisper. "Oh."

"I guess I know what you meant, but—"

"I'm sorry," Kirsten says, cutting him off before he can continue fumbling through his explanation. "I didn't… I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I just meant… Before the accident, you were finally starting to get comfortable around us. You were finally getting used to our life, our family. And then…" She blinks back tears. "You lost all that. Everything you had learned from us, from Seth. Everything we had all learned from you. It was all back to square one. You didn't understand why you were with us and not your other family anymore. You didn't trust us anymore."

Ryan isn't sure what to say to that.

It's true.

It would have been true if he had been with his biological family, and for better reasons, but the fact that he was living with strangers who truly were, well, strangers, made things worse.

"But that was then," Kirsten adds. "We're a…" She trails off, looking at Ryan for confirmation. "That is, I think we're a family again, now. Just…"

"A different one?"

"If that makes sense."

A family. No alcohol in the house, lots of pictures of happier times, and Sandy and Kirsten, worrying about him and proving Steve right by grounding him until his wedding day.

Caring.

It makes a lot more sense than what he saw in Chino, even though he still feels drawn to Trey, to Chino. To his past.

"How are you feeling?" Kirsten asks. The same question she has asked every morning since he has come back, but this time, she's not talking about the faded bruises anymore.

"I don't know," he mutters. "I never meant to hurt you or Sandy."

"We know that."

"I just… she didn't even try to stop him. And she left me with you. And…" He looks at Kirsten, trusting her to tell him what he needs to hear—the truth. "She'll never come back, will she?"

"Do you want her to?"

"No," he says quickly. "I… I guess I want her to care. A little." _Enough to at least miss me, sometimes._

"You want to understand," Kirsten finishes for him.

Of course, she knows that.

It has been Ryan's prime goal this year.

Remember the past, or failing that, at least understand where he comes from, and how he ended up living with the Cohens.

Belonging to their family.

Kirsten comes to sit with him on the bed, takes his hand in her own. "You never talked about it," she says. "When she left, you never even talked about her again. But I don't think you understood then either, and you had your memories of your life together back then, so that didn't help."

Painfully talking through the knot in his throat, he whispers, "She sat there and watched him hit me."

Kirsten and Sandy are not his biological parents, yet he has no doubts that they'd do anything to protect him, even if it meant risking their lives.

Dawn raised him, for better or for worse, and she couldn't be bothered to help him.

Couldn't even be bothered to pack up and leave AJ.

He closes his eyes—he's not going to cry because of her—and feels Kirsten move closer to him, take him into her arms.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she says.

He nods in her shirt and breathes deeply, finally regaining some control.

Once he's calmer, she lets him go. "For what it's worth," she says, "I think that she left you with us because she sincerely wanted you to have a better life. Grow up safe. Not suffer from her mistakes anymore."

Ryan thinks back about Dawn's sobs and her begging earlier on the phone. "That wasn't the only reason," he mutters.

Kirsten shakes her head. "No. No, it wasn't. But it counts for something."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On the last day of school, Julia is watching on as Steve and Matt try to clean their lockers.

She looks equally entertained and disgusted, which is understandable, given what these two have collected throughout the year.

Ryan half expects small furry things to come running out of there. Sadly, that doesn't happen.

It would at least be entertaining.

Instead, his two friends fill a big garbage bag while Julia and Ryan—who took care of their things in the previous days and are both a lot tidier than Matt and Steve anyway—sit cross-legged in the hall and discuss their plans for the summer.

Julia still teases him every day, reminding him that he's grounded, and not about to see the light of day. "How will you deal with spending the summer grounded?"

"I'm hoping they'll change their minds."

Matt snorts, Julia chuckles, Steve throws him an "are-you-really-that-naïve?" look.

Okay, fine, he gets it already.

The Cohens won't change their minds.

But hey, a little hope has never killed anyone, right?

Right.

Besides, the Cohens at least allow him limited access to the TV, the phone and the computer. Very limited access, but it's better than nothing. "Since you're going to be grounded for a very, very, very long time, it's only fair that we allow you some privileges. We're not barbaric to the point of denying you access to technology for the rest of your teenage years," Sandy told him very seriously.

Plus…

"They said I could look for a job."

"You want to work?" Matt asks, his incredulous tone eliciting a wave of laughter from the other three.

"Why not?" Ryan asks when they've stopped chuckling. "I wouldn't mind making some money, and it beats staying home all day."

"What kind of work?" Julia asks. "Because, if it's a waiter thing, well, we could use a new place to hang out." She smiles brightly. "We'll even tip generously."

"Riiiight," Steve hisses under his breath. "Tip a buddy. That'll be the day."

"I'll let you know when I find something," Ryan throws in before the discussion can escalate. "And thanks."

Matt picks up a black… _thing_ from the bottom of his locker, shoots a dubious glance at it and drops it in the garbage bag. "I'd tell you we're going to ask them to cut you some slack, but let's face it, Julia's the only one who's good at pleading with parents. She just has a trustworthy face."

Julia looks at him, frowning, but Steve and Ryan's serious nods make her smile. "Oh, fine. If they don't relent by the end of the summer, I'll try to convince them to allow you to come play with us a few times."

"A few times?" Matt repeats. "Nice… If that's the best you can do—"

"He took a bus to his old town and came back all beat up," she snaps back at him. "I'm no miracle worker."

"Anything you can do," Ryan throws in. "Anything at all."

There's a small silence which Matt and Steve use to go back to their cleaning up. When they seem busy enough, Julia asks softly, "Have you heard more from your other family, by the way?"

"A phone call from my mother. Another one from my brother. They didn't say much."

Actually, Dawn didn't say anything at all, just cried until Sandy took the phone from Ryan and hung up for him. Trey was almost nice, which was unnerving as hell. Trey doesn't do nice very well.

He also doesn't share much about his life, just saying that he doesn't want to talk about it.

"That's the way we Atwoods deal with things, bro. We ignore it, we forget it, and it's for the best."

Ryan still doesn't agree with him on the forgetting thing, but of course, he's the lucky one.

He has a new family and a chance to become something.

A chance to grow up safe and cared for.

Trey only has bitter memories and jail, and months to wait until he's out.

Still, his phone call made Ryan feel better—even if Trey found nine different ways to call him an idiot in under five minutes of conversation.

"You okay?" Julia asks. Ryan turns to look at her, suddenly aware that he was staring into space.

"Sure," Ryan replies.

Then Steve throws something at Matt, and Matt tries to find something to retaliate with and Ryan stops thinking about both his families for a little while, enjoying the moment and the company of his friends.

* * *

TBC 


	11. Epilogue

**Title** : Empty Diary

**Author** : Helen C.

**Rating** : PG-13

**Summary** : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?

**Disclaimer **: The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N.** This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!

* * *

**Epilogue**

Early in July, Ryan starts accompanying Matt on his daily, very-early-morning runs.

The conversation is mostly one-sided. Matt is a bit of health nut and runs every day, even in the most suffocating heat. Ryan has made do with PE classes, and he feels ashamed at being so out of shape. From the pictures he saw, he knows he was a lot more athletic before the accident, but he lost a lot of weight then, and he never bothered to do anything about it until now.

So he accompanies Matt and listens as his friend complains about his parents, the heat, and the fact that all the cool chicks have gone out of town for the holidays.

"Julia is still here," Ryan points out.

"Julia's not cool," Matt retorts. "She's… you know. One of the guys."

Ryan spends a few entertaining moments imagining Julia's reaction if she ever heard something like that. "Hm. Better keep that theory to yourself."

Matt chuckles. "Oh, believe me, I will."

They go on for a while in silence before Matt speaks again. "So, how's your job going?"

He's not even out of breath, damn him.

Ryan has to speak in short, clipped words to avoid hyperventilating, and his friend looks like he'd be content running and babbling all day.

"Job's fine." And it taught Ryan one important thing. Popular knowledge is all wrong: dog isn't man's best friend, AC is. He doesn't think he'd have survived his first week at the restaurant without it.

Ryan's relieved when Matt stops long enough to drink some water, still running in place.

Sweat is trickling down Ryan's back, down his face, making him yearn for a shower.

"It has never been this hot, even in the summer," Matt observes, his thoughts following the same lines as Ryan's.

That's all anyone can talk about these days: how unusual the heat is, this close to the ocean.

"Great." Ryan takes a few deep breaths and gulps down water. "We move up North and it's actually hotter here than in Southern California."

Matt doesn't look convinced. "Come on. I'm sure it must be hell inland, but Newport can't have been too bad, right?"

Newport sucked, actually. Granted, Ryan only vaguely remembers it—his most vivid memories are that of Caleb, and of his hospital room. Reason enough to wish never to go back there.

"I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention to the weather, honestly."

With that, Ryan starts running again, leaving Matt trailing behind him for a while.

"Got it," Matt says when he catches up. "No more bringing up Southern California."

"Sorry." Ryan slows down a little—he needs to be able to make it back home, and he won't if he starts sprinting now. "I just—" _Wish I could forget it. No, scratch that. Not forget._

"You just don't want to talk about it ever again. Gotcha."

His friends rarely push him to talk. Sometimes, Ryan feels bad for always keeping them at arm's length. It's not like they don't know what happened to him. What he didn't tell them, they must have guessed by now. "Maybe not never," he says. "Just not right now." Not in the open, not while he's trying to get some real exercise for the first time in a year and definitely not without some alcohol involved.

Bad enough that he has to talk to the shrink the Cohens force him to go to—a forty-something, no-nonsense lady who at least doesn't make Ryan want to bang his head on her desk repeatedly.

He'll tell his friends more eventually, but that won't be for a long time yet.

Matt nods and starts to smile. "Okay then. I'll be sure to harass you again for more insight into your mysterious life. Later."

That, Ryan knows he can count on.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dawn calls him again that night.

Obviously, her resolve to get clean didn't last very long.

Ryan listens to her for exactly three minutes, and hangs up on her when she starts repeating herself.

He doesn't think he could stand it much longer without losing it.

He can faintly hear the Cohens' voices downstairs. Sandy's home, which means dinner—tonight, Chinese food—must be on the way.

Ryan briefly toys with the idea of staying in his room for a while longer—just long enough to pull himself together in private.

Dawn's phone calls always leave him feeling insecure and unsettled. The Cohens don't need to know that.

Then he remembers Kirsten asking him to come to them if Dawn called again.

What does he have to lose?

It's not like the Cohens haven't seen him at his worst already.

It's not like he doesn't owe them for what he put them through.

It's not like they won't worry if he stays here instead of joining them.

And sure, walking down the stairs, going to them and saying, "Dawn just called," is hard.

Just not as hard as he thought it would be.

"Was she…?" Sandy asks.

"Drunk? Yeah." Ryan could try to smile but he doesn't think he'd make it.

Damn it.

Even if he didn't really believe Dawn's promises, he was still hoping.

A little.

Is this what his relationship with his mother has always been like? Promises, always followed by disappointment?

Kirsten rubs his shoulders gently. "You okay?"

"Yeah." They both look at him, making him want to roll his eyes. Why doesn't anyone believe him when he says that? Is he really that transparent? "I used to think that nothing was worse than not remembering," he offers.

"And now?"

"Now, I'm not so sure."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Much later that night, the Cohens and Ryan are watching a movie—it was Sandy's turn to choose, and amazingly, he didn't choose a Stallone. Of course Steven Seagal is even worse, but Ryan suspects that it was the whole point—show them something worse and they won't complain as much next time Sandy wants to watch Rocky.

Kirsten is half asleep and Sandy looks amused at the cliché-ridden scenario.

Ryan has stopped paying attention after the first five minutes, instead thinking about what Dawn screamed at him earlier on the phone—something about how worthless he is, and about how the Cohens would tire of him just as she did.

Ryan knows better than to believe anything she says.

Really, he does.

Still, after everything he did, he needs to know.

This time, he's the one asking, "Why?"

Sandy looks at him, surprised. "What's that, kid?"

He blushes and stares at the screen. "Why? Why did you take me in?" he asks, more clearly.

"Ah."

Ryan waits, but when nothing more comes, curiosity gets the better of him. "Ah, what?"

"That's something I've been asked by a lot of people," Sandy replies. "But never by you. I like to think that you knew what my reasons were, but… Maybe you were just scared of what the answer would be."

He pauses as if gathering his thoughts.

After a while, Sandy starts smiling. "The best answer I've ever found was, why not?"

"That's it?" Kirsten stirs in her sleep and Ryan lowers his voice. "That's your explanation?"

Sandy shrugs easily. "You needed a place to stay and people to take care of you. We had the room and we cared."

"So, why not, huh?" Why not take a teenager in, raise him as their own, hold his hand when he gets into a car crash, help him through the pain, the frustration, the maddening lack of everything that made him, him, all the while grieving for their other son.

Why not, indeed?

And the Cohens don't even seem to realize how extraordinary it all is.

"Do you regret it?" Sandy asks after a while. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't left Chino, but you almost certainly wouldn't have been involved in that accident, so…"

So he wouldn't have lost all his memories and been stuck with strangers—strangers who, somewhere along the lines, have become his family.

Ryan shakes his head. "No. No, I don't." He swallows nervously before asking, "Do you? Regret it?" _Because if I hadn't been there, perhaps your son wouldn't have died. And you sure as hell wouldn't have to worry whenever I decide to be stubborn and do things the hard way._

"Never," Sandy says. The conviction in his tone takes Ryan by surprise.

"Really?" he hears himself asking.

Sandy doesn't reply, waiting until Ryan shoots a nervous look at him. "We love you, and in all the ways that count, you're our son," he says.

"Even when I do stupid stuff?" he asks.

Sandy barks out a sharp laugh. "You're a teenager, Ryan. We knew what we were getting into. So, yes. Even then."

The words sound a lot like a promise and Ryan allows himself to believe it.

The Cohens could have washed their hands of him long ago, and they didn't.

Surely that must mean something.

"You're stuck with us for the long haul, kid," Sandy says.

And _that_ is definitely something Ryan can live with.

* * *

end 


End file.
